


I'll Be Your Shelter

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Empath, F/F, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Guide Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Multi, Not of any main character, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sentinel Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Soul Bond, Telepathic Bond, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, previous unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28659246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: Jaskier was half way through a lackluster rendition of one of his least popular songs when his world went static.In his ears, a foreign heartbeat thundered, ragged and wounded.  It felt as though his lungs had gone sideways with the sensation.  Even the air itself tasted like it was charged with lightning, bright and bitter as ozone.  Deep in his gut, he felt something urging himself forward, pulling him like some invisible string towards an unknown destination.Something brushed across his senses, rough as tree bark, and sinking into his skin to crawl like ants beneath.  He froze, eyes darting around the room like he could spot whoever it was that had sent his senses scrambling against the hard earned shields he was always careful to maintain.  In his hands, his fingers faltered, melody disappearing beneath the wave of wrong that felt like it was choking him.The answer was simple--and impossible.There was a Sentinel here.______________________________A Sentinel/Guide AU
Relationships: Aiden/Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 555
Kudos: 1165





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday I toyed with the idea of maybe writing a Sentinel/Guide AU for the Witcher. Today, I have a sketched out plot and enough angst planned to make anyone have a feel trip. It'll be my first time playing with this AU so please excuse any mistakes as I try to incorporate sentinels and guides into the Witcher-verse.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If this is your first time to read a Sentinel/Guide AU, here's a basic rundown:
> 
> Guides are essentially empaths. They are very sensitive to the strain of other people's emotions and are typically assumed to be the weaker of the designations. However, they are capable of projecting and manipulating emotions of others for their own needs.
> 
> Sentinels are similar to super soldiers. They are faster and stronger than the average person--like a Witcher on steroids. Their senses are also enhanced. Sentinel abilities can vary based on their own strength/genetics which means some only have enhanced sight while others might have all five senses increased. Because of their enhanced senses, they struggle with overstimulation--also called 'zoning' which is where they can become so focused on one sense that they slowly go mad.
> 
> Since both of these designations come with drawbacks, sentinels and guides can bond and act as anchors to one another. A guide can soothe away the worst of the overstimulation and a sentinel can ensure the safety of the physically weaker guide. They balance one another.
> 
> For the Witcher version of this, there will still be mages, elves, Witchers, and basic humans. You can be a mage as well as a sentinel/guide and obviously Witchers can be enhanced by their designation. More lore will be discussed as the story progresses.

Jaskier was half way through a lackluster rendition of one of his least popular songs when his world went static.

In his ears, a foreign heartbeat thundered, ragged and wounded. It felt as though his lungs had gone sideways with the sensation. Even the air itself tasted like it was charged with lightning, bright and bitter as ozone. Deep in his gut, he felt something urging himself forward, pulling him like some invisible string towards an unknown destination.

Something brushed across his senses, rough as tree bark, and sinking into his skin to crawl like ants beneath. He froze, eyes darting around the room like he could spot whoever it was that had sent his senses scrambling against the hard earned shields he was always careful to maintain. In his hands, his fingers faltered, melody disappearing beneath the wave of _wrong_ that felt like it was choking him.

The answer was simple--and impossible.

There was a Sentinel here.

It was impossible, his mind repeated. Sentinels were a dying breed--the prized possessions of kings and queens who needed warriors that were nearly impossible to defeat. They had been the monster lurking in the darkest corners of the Continent for centuries until the Cull and still were enough to make any human stop and take notice. The stories of monster hunters and Witchers were already enough to alarm even the bravest of humankind--add in the knowledge that Witcher Schools were almost entirely made up of sentinels without any loyalty to any kingdom and you had a threat that couldn't be allowed to continue to exist.

Jaskier took a breath, trying to anchor himself against the instinctive urge to soothe whatever madness that had settled over the mysterious Sentinel. Against his shields, he could feel the emotions of the crowd pressing against him in familiar waves. Irritation. Humor. Exhaustion. All of them forming a wall of sensation that would leave him curled in a tight ball of agony without his barriers. 

His eyes darted around the room, passing over each face without interest to follow the pull in his gut that had him stepping further away from the cleared space that passed for a stage in this tiny town. Distantly, he heard someone speaking to him, but he only brushed them aside. It was impossible to think of anything but the silent siren’s call pulling him forward.

Compared to the chaos and pain of the Sentinel that was shivering through the air around them, Jaskier’s own talents were infantile in comparison. His skills were largely self-taught and assembled with the help of small snippets of lore and legend found in dusty corners of forgotten libraries. He’d been lucky to find one low level guide in Oxenfurt to help him learn how to create shields solid enough to keep him from buckling beneath the weight of a crowd’s emotions or the heartbreak of a passing villager.

Even luckier was his ability to avoid the notice of local mages and the sharp eyed scouts who were always searching for new recruits for Aretuza. 

The realization made him move through the crowd with greater impatience--whoever this Sentinel was, they were hurtling towards a full collapse. Their shields felt like they were completely down and it wouldn’t be long before they’d zoned too deeply for him to be able to pull them back out. As it was, they’d both be lucky if the Sentinel hadn’t called down every Guide hunter in the kingdom to Posada.

Jaskier pushed through a group of farmers and, as though drawn by some invisible magnet, felt his eyes lock on a solitary figure in the darkest corner of the tavern. Immediately, he knew whatever hope he’d had of escaping this day without drawing unwanted attention was impossible.

_Witcher_ , he mouthed, silent with awe.

One of the last of the fabled race of sentinel warriors sat silently at the abandoned table in the furthest corner of the room. Golden eyes stared at the table in front of him without seeing, pupils blown wide with a level of pain that made Jaskier’s stomach roil. If he looked closely, he could see the faint tremor that shivered through muscles that were coiled tight with tension.

Even without his own guide abilities urging himself forward, Jaskier liked to think he’d be able to tell that the warrior was in distress. The man flinched at every sound and seemed torn between making a run from the door to brave the smells of the small herd of cows moving down the road or remaining trapped in a room full of strangers laughing, shouting, and cursing at one another. It didn’t take much to imagine what the enhanced senses of a sentinel on top of the rumors of Witcher adaptations would do to someone without a guide to anchor them.

It made it easier to close the distance between them and slide into the seat across from the sentinel, noting absently the way the Witcher seemed to turn toward him minutely. The broad chest of the other man expanded on a slow inhale that Jaskier pretended didn’t make him notice the breadth of his shoulders or the angle of his jaw.

He faltered when those oddly colored eyes were dragged up from the table to fix on his face, ignored the way his skin burned and flushed like a boy with a crush. The Witcher’s abilities thrummed through the air between them, triggering the rise of his own and rumbling out of his chest in a soft hum that made the stranger’s eyes widen in surprise.

“You’re okay,” Jaskier started, working to keep his own voice even and projecting as much calm as he could into the space around himself. “We need to get you out of here. Get you somewhere safe so you can meditate.”

The Witcher didn’t respond, but Jaskier felt himself take heart in the way the other man seemed to sway closer with every word. Figuring words could act as an anchor, he forced himself to keep talking.

“Where is your Guide?” he asked gently, forcing himself to look away from the Witcher to scan the room. He couldn’t imagine any guide being heartless enough to leave their bondmate in such a state, but he had to be sure.

Guides and sentinels were designed for one another--or so the stories said. A guide kept their sentinel anchored to the earth when their senses threatened to pull them away from the earth. They were meant to bond, to find the other half of their abilities and soul in each other. It was the only way to truly be happy within your designation.

_A Sentinel protects the people. The Guide protects the Sentinel._

A raw, kicked sound brought his focus back to the Witcher and he tried not to think about the warmth that blossomed in his chest when the warrior relaxed minutely as soon as Jaskier was looking back at him. Immediately, he sent out another wave of soothing calm and ignored the blooming protectiveness in his chest. It was meaningless, he lectured himself, just the reaction of a sentinel who was barely holding on to their sanity and control.

“You’re zoning pretty bad, huh?” the bard whispered, lowering his voice to a register that only a sentinel could pick up. “I’m surprised you’re still able to move.”

The other man grunted and Jaskier grinned a little.

“Good thing I’ve always had a soft spot for the strong, silent types.” 

A group of merchants came into the tavern, laughing loudly. Instinctively, Jaskier reached out to wrap his fingers around the bare skin of the Witcher’s wrist. His thumb brushed over the pulse that pounded in time with the rhythm in his mind and he pretended not to notice the way the warrior shivered. 

“We need to get you out of here,” he said, eyes returning to the features of the stranger who was beginning to look pale and unfocused even with Jaskier’s own abilities surging forward to cloak them like a shield. “Somewhere safe. Can you walk?”

In answer, a small muscle in the Witcher’s jaw fluttered as he gritted his teeth and nodded in one, sharp jerk. Jaskier kept his hand firmly linked around the man’s wrist as he pushed off the table and got to his feet. The bard moved closer, tucking his slightly smaller body under one muscular arm and allowing the warrior to lean on him as he moved them toward the door he’d spotted earlier that led to the stables.

As they limped along, he hummed a nameless tune under his breath, hoping it would give the Witcher something to focus on besides the overwhelming sensory overload. If the Witcher was zoning, it would mean that his senses had completely broken through whatever shields he possessed. Every sound, every smell, every touch against his skin would grate like razors and bury themselves deep within his mind. If Jaskier wasn’t able to pull him back from the ledge, it was possible that the Witcher would go completely feral or catatonic--neither of which he wanted to see.

Later, when he wasn’t fighting the edge of his own panic, he would consider why he’d been so hellbent on saving a stranger. He would think about the way his chest ached whenever he thought about breaking his hold on the stranger’s hands or the way his own shields seemed to tremble with the need to envelope the Witcher within them. He’d never had a reaction this strong, this visceral to any of the sentinels he’d seen from a distance in his childhood or in passing in the cities he’d traveled through. If anything, he’d always avoided any mention of other sentinels or guides and dodged any city that boasted a mage’s guild or the hunters that sought out any untested guides.

As it was, he had his hands full trying to keep the other man upright and moving without collapsing under the weight of him. “Come on, Witcher,” he chanted, “Don’t stop now.”

The Witcher made another one of those rough sounds of pain as they made their way into the crowd. He tried to keep them from touching any of the other villagers, but it came with the price of slowing their pace and drawing more attention to them.

“Drank too much, I’m afraid,” Jaskier called out to the barmaid with a pasted on smile. “I’m going to let him sleep it off.”

She stared at him with a suspicion that only deepened when the Witcher shifted to bury his face in Jaskier’s neck, breathing in like he was desperate for air. Jaskier felt himself flush bright red and tried to keep his voice from cracking.

“I’ll be back to finish my set in a few minutes,” he lied and ignored the slight prickle against his skin that told him he was being watched.

Some part of him knew it wouldn’t be long before the town was crawling with hunters.

Outside, the bright sunlight made him wince and instinctively raise a hand to shade the Witcher’s sensitive eyes from it. The warrior seemed incapable of anything, but stumbling forward at Jaskier’s insistence so he assumed it was up to him to figure out how the fuck they were going to get out of here. 

“Right then,” he said, trying to fake his way through the panic of what was happening. “We need to find a way out of here--I don’t suppose you have a horse?”

The Witcher doesn’t respond. 

“Of course.”

A soft huff against his skin made goosebumps break out over his skin and Jaskier gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Now was not the time to investigate the way he wanted to curl up around the warrior until the world around them faded away.

They limped along the edge of the tavern toward the smell of hay and horses with a barely formed idea that maybe they could steal a horse and flee the town before the hunters came for them both. He had no interest in spending the rest of his life rotting away in a cell. 

The gods must have felt sympathetic to his silent prayers because as soon as they turned the corner, they came face to face with what could only be the Witcher’s horse. The brown mare looked up with interest at the sight of them and whickered at her disoriented rider. Two large swords were strapped to her saddle to match the simple black saddle and reins still attached to her. She stamped a foot at him as they approached, ears going flat as her nostrils flared to take in the scent of the stranger.

“Easy. Easy there,” he crooned, shifting to take more of the Witcher’s weight. “Good horsey.”

The mare narrowed her eyes at him as if she was saying that she was not, in fact, a ‘ _good horsey_.’

Somewhere nearby he heard the sound of raised, excited voices and felt his own heart began to race. The Witcher shifted in reaction, reminding Jaskier of the stories of the instinctive protectiveness of sentinels toward their guides. He looked at the horse with more determination.

“Look. The only way your owner gets out of here alive is if you don’t bite my arm off.” He leveled her with a stern look instead of thinking about how ridiculous it was to be speaking to a horse. That bravery faltered when he was forced to move closer and reach out, “ _Please_ don’t freak out.”

Warm muscle twitched beneath his fingers when he stroked over her shoulder, but--aside from an irritable swish of her tail--she didn’t react. Jaskier released a soft, relieved breath and considered his next hurdle--getting the Witcher into the saddle.

“Fuck,” he grunted after his first attempt to lift the Witcher up. He panted. “This isn’t working.”

He considered the Witcher and the mental countdown in his mind that marked how long it would be before someone came to stop them. It was no secret that guides and sentinels weren’t trusted by the rest of the population. Most considered the Cull as a necessary evil along with the rumors of children being dragged off to be trained and bound to the ‘schools’ that dotted the Continent.

Jaskier shivered at the idea of being forced into one of those hellholes.

With that in mind, he shifted his grip until he could cup one hand on the sentinel’s cheek and force those dazed golden eyes up to his. “Sentinel,” he murmured, trying to project some manner of authority into his voice, “I need your help.”

The Witcher shifted almost immediately and Jaskier swallowed hard when he felt a calloused hand slip around his hip, fingers moving beneath his shirt to brush against warm skin.

“You want to keep me safe, right?” he continued, trying to play off the instinctive urges of their designations, “We need to get out of here. We need to get somewhere safe.”

For a moment, Jaskier thought it wouldn’t work. The sentinel’s eyes were glazed over and seemed to be barely clinging to consciousness. He felt the growing panic within him reach new heights as he tried to think of a way to get out of this mess.

“Please please please, sentinel,” he nearly sobbed, glancing back at the sound of the tavern door opening and voices calling out, “you have to move. I can’t do this alone.”

Then,

The Witcher’s muscles bunched and Jaskier heard a barely smothered sound of pain as the man reached out to grab the saddle horn and haul himself clumsily into the saddle. Jaskier reached for the reins to keep the mare from spooking, but she seemed remarkably used to hauling an almost comatose sentinel on her back. He patted her neck in silent praise and looked around to see if he could spot a quiet escape route out of this city, silently saying goodbye to the promise of a night indoors.

“ _Guide_.”

The voice was gravel over icy snow and laced with pain. Jaskier turned in surprise and saw the Witcher twitching, teeth chattering as the pain within him reached new heights. Driven by instinct, the guide immediately reached out and looped his fingers around the sentinel’s wrist again, hoping the skin to skin contact would help along with a redoubled attempt to project soothing waves of his power. 

Whatever bond that was growing between them made it feel like his own panic waned, replaced with a calm sort of focus. He took a deep breath that was echoed by the sentinel and nodded to himself. There would be time to freak out later over the way his powers were surging in a way they never had before or the way his body seemed to crave the touch of the Witcher. For now, they needed to get out of here.

His first attempt to release his hold on Geralt’s wrist felt like a body blow. They both let out choked noises of pain and Jaskier reached out blindly to cling to the warm skin of the man’s back beneath his armor. 

“Fuck,” he panted into the leather saddle and shivered again when the Witcher’s hand dropped to thread through his hair. “Stay touching. Got it.”

The mare shifted again, ears pricking ahead of her in warning a moment before a group of men turned the corner and caught sight of them.

“Bard!” A man with a stained red shirt called imperiously, “Where do you think you’re going?”

A subvocal growl rumbled from the Witcher, vibrating against Jaskier’s fingers. He didn’t need the reminder of the threat they were both facing.

He gave the group a smile while he subtly untied the mare’s reins from the post. “It looks like my friend is getting sick,” he said easily, pouring on the charm he’d learned from years of dealing with irate crowds and pushy nobles. Just in case, he ensured his shields were firmly in place and he wasn’t in danger of driving the town around him into a frenzy. “I’m going to take him to find a healer.”

“You’re not going anywhere, boy.”

There was no mistaking the menace in the man’s voice now and Jaskier resisted the urge to curse. The group was beginning to spread out, trying to circle him to cut off his escape routes. 

Before they could get close enough to grab the mare’s reins, Jaskier shifted his grip and pulled himself onto the saddle in front of the sentinel. The movement was awkward, but unexpected enough that he managed to get situated before the group rushed them. His lute banged against the saddle with a worrying noise that he ignored in favor of shoving his feet into the stirrups.

The mare reared up--lashing her hooves out with deadly accuracy--and Jaskier nearly toppled over if not for the strong hands that wrapped around his waist and kept him steady. 

The sentinel was a line of heat along his back and shockingly intimate after so many years since he’d allowed someone this close. He could feel the warm brush of his breath against the sensitive skin of his neck with each move of the broad chest behind him. Large, sword calloused hands spread out over his stomach, bracing and teasing all at once. His abilities felt like they were singing with each point of contact, filling his senses like a drug. He wanted to curl up against the sentinel until he disappeared inside. He wanted to turn and drag his lips down the line of the other man’s throat, taste the sounds that he--

Another shout forced him back to the present with jarring efficiency. Jaskier pulled at the mare’s reins and pointed her in the direction of a gap in the group of villagers. She shot forward like an arrow, pouring on an impressive amount of speed for a horse carrying two grown men. He felt clawing hands snag on his clothing before falling away as they continued implacably forward.

Their shouts grew fainter as the mare continued along the road, nearly knocking over a woman carrying a handful of firewood in their dash for freedom. Jaskier turned in the saddle to look over the Witcher’s shoulder for any sign of pursuers and was rewarded with only the disappearing buildings of Posada. He let the reins go loose, letting the mare make up for his terrible horsemanship by choosing her own path forward.

  
  
  


There was a reason why he’d never bothered to save up for a horse of his own, he thought when the mare slowed from a ground-eating canter to a walk. His thighs and ass were aching from the saddle and his muscles trembled from the exhaustion of trying to keep the both of them from falling off. At his back, the Witcher was worryingly limp against him with his face tucked into the joint of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder.

“Almost safe,” he said, repeating the words like eventually he would believe them. “Not long now and we both can take a nice long nap.”

Jaskier tugged at the reins, leading the mare off the dirt road and onto a narrow game path. He hoped that they’d gotten enough of a lead on their pursuers that they would be able to sleep for a bit and attempt to pull the sentinel out of his spiral. The bard wasn’t sure _how_ he intended to bring the Witcher out of the overwhelming sensory overload that came with falling into a zone, let alone how he was going to manage to keep them from being captured by hunters--but that was a problem for future Jaskier.

He ducked beneath several low hanging branches and raised a hand to ensure the Witcher wasn’t hit. Above them, the sky rumbled ominously and he sighed when raindrops began to trickle through the leaves. As much as they could use the extra help the rain would offer in slowing their pursuers and covering their tracks, Jaskier wasn’t looking forward to spending a night soaking wet.

To their left, he heard the soft sounds of moving water so he directed the mare closer. Depending on what kinds of gear the Witcher had in the pack still lashed to the saddle, he might be able to set a few snares or catch some fish to fill his growling belly. That, of course, would be next to impossible if he couldn’t separate himself from the sentinel without that crippling pain again. Even the reminder was enough to make him drop his hand to run his fingers over the scarred skin of the Witcher’s arm.

At his back, he felt the man shift and smiled.

  
“Still with me, big guy?”

There was no response, but Jaskier didn’t press. His own stores of energy were dangerously low and he could feel his shields beginning to flicker, letting in little bursts of _painpainpainpain_ and a burning wash of sensations.

Jaskier shuddered, trembling all over as he tried to balance out the overload. The limited lessons he’d picked up from the occasional low-level guide and the information left in forgotten books weren’t enough to handle the terrifying amount of power that came from a real life sentinel. If he had to guess, the Witcher was more powerful than most sentinels were rumored to be, controlling at least three of the five senses that a sentinel abilities could amplify. 

He didn’t want to think about what it must have felt like to be buried beneath them all.

The mare came to a stop while he was distracted by the dizzying pull from the other man and looked up to see the horse had stopped along a rocky outcropping against a quick-moving stream. Ahead of him, he could make out a few naturally occurring caves in the spaces between rocks and he let out a relieved breath at the thought of getting somewhere warm and dry. Night was falling fast and he didn’t want to risk being out in the open when there might be hunters roaming the area.

“Smart girl,” he said to the mare, who stamped her foot as if disgusted with the idea of him complimenting her.

The thought made him grin and he patted the Witcher’s hand gently. “I’m beginning to think your horse is smarter than most.”

When he went to slide his leg over to dismount, the sentinel’s arms tightened around him and the warrior released a desperate sound of protest. 

“We need to get shelter,” he soothed. “I need to get your horse taken care of and make sure we’re safe--” The sentinel growled as if offended by the notion that Jaskier wasn’t already safe with him, forcing Jaskier to continue forward quickly, “--and that we have food. Don’t you want to eat?”

The Witcher didn’t respond, but his hold loosened slightly which Jaskier took as agreement. Truly, the sentinel was already showing remarkable control compared to the legends of berserkers and half-feral sentinels preying on innocents. Jaskier rewarded him with another gentle pat before sliding off the saddle and half-collapsing on the ground.

He groaned at his aching legs and ignored the judgemental look the mare leveled at him. “Not all of us enjoy riding horses,” he told her sternly.

She bumped into his side, causing him to scramble to hold on to the saddle to avoid falling face first into the mud.

Scowling, he grabbed her reins and limped forward, trying to ignore the waves of agony that continued to pulse through his mind courtesy of the unnamed sentinel. Desperate for relief, Jaskier began to sing softly under his breath, lacing each syllable with some of his own power. It was almost soothing to allow his shields to drop. He hardly ever relaxed enough to risk it, but he supposed knowing that the hunters were already searching for them had removed the need for subtlety.

He could feel the sentinel at the edges of his senses like a piece of a pebble in his boot. It felt like his designation was fighting against each step that kept him from fully focusing on the sentinel and soothing away the other man’s pain. Without the shields, his own guide abilities surged forward, eager to smooth away the lines of tension bracketing his mouth and hiding those handsome features behind a pained frown. The Witcher had slumped forward limply without Jaskier there to hold him upright, but somehow the guide knew the other man was still alert to every step he took.

The sight of a shadowed cave big enough to keep the mare and both men out of the rain made him make a soft sound of relief. He stumbled forward gracelessly and ducked his head inside, praying that no wildlife had already taken up residence there. When nothing came rushing out to eat him, he let the reins drop and walked around the mare to carefully pull off the neatly folded bedroll and pack behind the saddle and set it safely inside before going back for the Witcher.

The sentinel was still far too large for Jaskier to manage to lift even without the exhaustion of the day, but gravity was on his side this time and he managed to pull the man out of the saddle. He half collapsed when the full weight of the Witcher fell against him, but he gritted his teeth and half dragged, half walked into the shelter of their makeshift camp. The nearly unconscious warrior went onto the bedroll and Jaskier flopped onto the ground beside him, panting with effort.

“What do they feed you? Boulders?”

He probably would have fallen asleep in his muddy and ruined clothes were it not for the irritable huff from the mare a few feet away. Narrowing blue eyes at her, he considered the ramifications of just letting her wander away and let his tired body sleep for a week or so.

As if sensing his thoughts, the mare stepped closer, rumbling a warning that he didn’t need to speak horse to understand. _Don’t even think about it, bard._

Releasing a growl of his own, Jaskier rolled to his side and forced himself onto his knees then upright. Every move made him ache like he’d been running nonstop for days instead of riding a horse for a few hours. Still, it was hardly fair to leave her in the sweat soaked saddle and reins while he slept. 

With fumbling fingers, Jaskier managed to unlace the girth and straps using the long-forgotten riding lessons of his youth. His parents had hardly intended for him to apply their dressage training to help care for a horse after fleeing a town with a Witcher sentinel. The knowledge of his parent’s general disgust with his decisions and way of life were old wounds and he ignored them with the ease of long practice. There were far more pressing issues at stake.

He forced himself to concentrate on each motion to avoid acknowledging his protesting body. His mind felt like it was floating oddly--at times centered on the silent, unmoving man behind him and at times drifting through cottony numbness. Instinct told him that he was probably edging toward a dangerous overload of his abilities. 

When it became impossible to ignore the pull to return to the sentinel behind him, Jaskier settled the saddle and riding gear in a mostly neat pile out of the rain and tied the mare’s bridle where she could graze at the patchy grass or stay dry if she preferred. She deigned to let him pat her shoulder one last time before he stumbled into the cave.

Jaskier pulled off his sweat soaked doublet and gave it a cursory look. It probably wouldn’t ever be its original color again, but it hadn’t ripped in their mad-dash to freedom so he considered it a win. He shivered when the cold air hit his rain soaked skin and carefully draped it over a nearby rock to dry out. His pants followed, leaving him only in his smalls and undershirt. Briefly, he considered going out to try to find wood for a fire before deciding it was too much of a risk when there were potentially people hunting for them both.

The thought made his hands tremble. He’d spent years carefully avoiding attracting the attention of the hunters that were always searching for new guides to drag back for ‘retraining’ only to ruin it all at the first sign of a sentinel in distress. A _Witcher_ sentinel, no less.

If he had any sense, he would take the horse and leave the sentinel to recover on his own. There was no way that the sentinel hadn’t pulled himself out of a zone before, old as he was. Jaskier didn’t owe him any more than he’d already sacrificed in an effort to keep this stranger safe. For all he knew, there was a reason why the Witchers had been nearly wiped out in the Cull.

And yet…

The thought of walking away now made him want to vomit. Even being separated long enough to take care of the mare had been like walking over glass and swallowing fire. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he actually tried to leave for good. 

There was no going back.

Jaskier shoved the thought of what might come in the morning in favor of walking over to where he’d left the sentinel laying sprawled over the bed roll. With tired motions, he tugged at the leather armor that protected the warriors chest and tossed them in the pile next to the saddle. The added weight probably hadn’t helped lower the overstimulation that had gotten them into this mess. He couldn’t help, but run his fingers over the stubborn edge of his chin or the slightly furrowed brow.

As if sensing who was touching him, the sentinel stirred, golden eyes slitting to look up at him. “Guide.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if you can say anything else.”

Instead of answering, the Witcher tugged on his hand until Jaskier was tucked into the curve of his body. The sensation of the bare skin of his arms against the sentinels made him shudder, more sensitive than anything he’d ever felt even during sex. He let himself linger in the feedback loop that only grew stronger with every passing moment, trying to ignore the voice in his mind whispering over and over again.

_Mine. My sentinel. Mine._

“What have I gotten myself into?” he asked the rough stone ceiling.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow--you guys fully blew me away with all the support, comments and kudos from chapter one! I channeled that into a writing spree that I offer up now.
> 
> Enjoy!

Jaskier woke up to the rumbling of his stomach and a pounding head. He winced, pressing a palm against his eye where a migraine was brewing. His shields were in tatters and left him uncomfortably vulnerable feeling in the wake of all that had happened.

At the edges of his consciousness, he could feel the sentinel’s mind--exhausted, shocky with the lingering vestiges of the overstimulation that had sent them careening into one another. It was shockingly intimate after so long without giving in to the pull of his own abilities.

It was the stuff of fables, of romantic ballads, and long-forgotten tales from before the Cull.

He risked a glance down at the impossibly beautiful Witcher still sleeping next to him, one muscular arm thrown across his stomach, and felt a thrum of happiness go through him. Moon pale hair was spread like skeins of silk over tanned skin that bore the scars that could only belong to a warrior. The sentinel would be glorious when his features weren’t bracketed with pain and Jaskier risked reaching out to smooth the furrow between two arched brows, feeling a surge of protectiveness for his new companion. The day before felt like an impossible adventure and the rush of keeping his sentinel safe chased away the memories of exhaustion and fear. 

Outside, the world was sleepy quiet in the way that always followed rain and he could hear the mare chomping away at the grass near her. Another growl from his protesting stomach and he sighed, gently moving the sentinel’s arm away so he could get to his feet. The Witcher made a soft noise of protest that Jaskier soothed away with a thrum of peace, the emotion like an unspoken promise.  _ I’ll protect you. I’ll come back. Always. _

Flushing a little at the direction of his thoughts, Jaskier stepped into his muddied trousers and boots, wincing a little at the smell. Maybe he’ll be able to wash away the worst of it before his sentinel woke up and had to suffer through his enhanced senses. Jaskier was almost sure the Witcher was blessed with at least four, if not five of the senses sentinels could control and he did not want to risk ruining first impressions.

With that thought in mind, Jaskier tossed his doublet over one shoulder and walked out into the early morning light to find the mare watching him with haughty brown eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d like a drink?” he asked her, reaching out to run a hand over a warm shoulder before he untied her makeshift hobble.

The mare blew out a breath, exasperated and tetchy as the day before.

“I wonder what he calls you,” Jaskier said as he began to make his way through the trees toward the water he could hear in the distance. “Buttercup? Sweetie? Clover?”

He barely dodged her snapping teeth, but didn’t take it to heart, just grinned impishly at her.

“It’s too bad I’ve never been able to project with horses, hm? Just think, I might have been able to convince you that we were friends.”

Her expression seemed to indicate the depths of her disbelief at that notion.

They made their way down the muddied banks to a slower moving section of the now overfull creek. The water was clear and painfully cold when Jaskier risked cupping his hands and taking a long drink. Shivering a bit, he shucked off his dirty clothes and forced himself to start working on soaking the worst of the stains away from the day before. Without his pack, it would be some time before he could afford to buy more clothing, he thought with a mournful look towards the town where he’d left all of his belongings behind aside from his lute.

He would be lucky if the instrument wasn’t permanently damaged after their wild dash through the woods and away from Posada. It hadn’t looked too bad last night, but he hadn’t spent much time checking it over when he was nearly collapsing beneath the weight of his own exhaustion, doubled by the feedback loop between himself and the Witcher.

Once his pants and doublet were drying on the rocks nearby and Jaskier was shivering in the cool morning air, he risked testing the limits of his connection with the sentinel with a short pulse of soothing calm. When he concentrated, he could only feel the same bone deep exhaustion that had colored their night together after the sentinel had finally collapsed so he left the warrior to his rest. Flopping onto the smooth river stones lining the bank, he stared up at the sky and contemplated the insanity of his life.

He’d spent most of his life making an artform out of avoiding the guide and sentinel hunters that roamed the Continent, eager for new goods to sell to power-mad tyrants and desperate armies. The sentinels were the most obvious choice for military use--with their enhanced strength and speed--but guides were needed to keep them from falling apart when their senses overwhelmed them. There were even rumors that guides could be used for far more sinister tasks when war loomed.

Jaskier shuddered at the thought. 

His own powers had been a source of so much fear and anxiety that he rarely lowered his shields unless he was far away from any other humans. Any time he was in a crowd he could feel the pulse of their emotions like stormwinds battering away at the barriers within his mind. It hadn’t taken long to learn what would happen if he let his guard down--nose bleeds, migraines, and, on occasion, a feedback loop so intense that he’d collapse. Nothing at all like the warm pull that had him eager to return to the sentinel’s side even now.

With that in mind, Jaskier forced himself back into his still-damp pants and trekked back up the hill. The mare was waiting at the top--although she only graced him with a flick of one ear--before her head came up with a new sort of alertness.

He frowned at her, noting the way the woods around them had gone silent without the noise of the river covering up the unnatural quiet. 

“What--” his near silent query cut off as the mare blew out a breath, stamping her foot in warning. He started to walk towards her, but, before he could, she whirled and raced away, heading for the cave.

Scowling at the retreating horse, he cursed. Leave it to him to get left behind by the very creature that could get him  _ away _ from any threat.

Skin prickling in warning, Jaskier began to trail after the mare towards the cave. His eyes darted around the woods with a growing suspicion that only got worse with every step. It felt like his footsteps were unnaturally loud in comparison, crunching over the wet leaves and hidden twigs. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as adrenaline made his hands tremble.

The thought of something reaching the sentinel before him made him pause and rally his senses toward the cave. His mind brushed against the Witcher’s--still sleeping peacefully, thankfully--and he sagged against a nearby tree in relief. At least he hadn’t abandoned the warrior to be attacked while he was still weakened by zoning out the day before.

Then he heard it--

The slow drag of feet moving closer.

Jaskier threw himself behind the relative shelter of the tree, breath coming in frantic bursts. He tried to concentrate, throwing out his senses to feel whoever was trailing him, but found nothing but his own panic echoing back at him. There was nothing.

It made him frown, staring at the dying trees in front of him while he continued to track the sound of whatever it was coming closer. Only the dead and the powerful could keep a guide from being able to sense their presence--and Jaskier had no interest in running into either this far out in the woods. He tried again, but the footsteps were getting closer and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide here forever.

Tilting his head, he looked around the side of the tree and scanned the area behind him where he thought he heard the footsteps last. The area was oddly empty and he shifted himself more fully away from the shelter of the tree so he could look more closely. Above him, the birds were utterly still and silent. Almost as though they saw--

A slight whistle of something slicing through the air was the only warning he got and he dropped to the ground on instinct. A few inches above his gaping face--where his head had been only a few seconds before--was a massive battle axe buried deep into the tree trunk. He scuttled backwards on hands and knees, gaping at the weapon as a skeletal hand wrapped around the hilt of the weapon and pulled it effortlessly free.

The creature in front of him had no place in the light of day, his panicked mind babbled. It stood nearly seven feet tall at its full height and carried the rusted metal of its ancient armor without noticing the weight. Rotting flesh and white bone peeked out between the layers of it’s tattered clothing and armor. Dark, empty eye sockets seemed to track his movements as it prowled forward slowly--confident in its ability to capture its prey. 

“F-fuck,” he sputtered, feeling like his heart was going to beat right out of his chest.

He watched in horror as the axe was raised above the beast’s head once more and forced himself to roll to the side. It sank into the earth with a bone jarring thud and he knew it wouldn’t take long before it attacked again. Using the momentum of his roll, he managed to get himself far enough away to scramble to his feet and began to run.

His breath ripped free from his chest in rattling gasps--proof that his panic was a living weight in his chest. He heard the sound of the creature moving after him and desperately tried to pour on as much speed as he could as he wove his way through the trees, trying to avoid any brambles or vines that would slow him down. The movement kept him from noticing the chill in the air from his wet clothes or the pain in his feet without the boots he must have dropped when he’d fallen earlier. If he was lucky, he’d live long enough to regret leaving them behind.

As it was, Jaskier could feel his choices disappearing with every step through the trees. He couldn’t be sure that he was following the path that would lead him back to the cave and was too frantic to orient himself properly. Even if he managed to find it, he couldn’t risk the creature killing his sentinel while the warrior was still unconscious.

His mind was too full of fear to maintain his shields and he was grateful that at least they were too far away to attract the attention of any hunters with the waves of terror he was sending out. If the creature had still been alive and capable of feeling anything past the desire for violence, he might have been able to use his abilities as a guide to keep it at bay or even send it back to whatever tomb he might have crawled out of. As it was, he was no better off than any other human in the hands of the beasts that lurked in the darkest shadows of the world.

A fallen tree limb half-buried in leaf litter caught around his ankles and sent him crashing into the earth with a grunt of pain. He felt the sting of something sharp biting into his palms a moment before an inhumanly strong arm grabbed him by the back of his neck and sent him flying through the air.

Jaskier hit hard, his breath escaping his chest in a pained wheeze that seemed to take all of his ability for higher thought with it. His limbs trembled, floundering weakly against the ground as he watched the creature walk toward him with vicious delight. The axe gleamed dully in its hand as it slowly brought it up to its shoulder, moving close enough that it could be sure to hit its target now that Jaskier was on the ground.

Gritting his teeth against the waves of pain and throbbing agony of his head, Jaskier fought to get to his feets, his knees,  _ anything _ but lay there while this monster took its time killing him. He glared up at it, reaching for the bravado buried deep beneath the growing terror and snarled like a trapped wolf.

“Go on then, you gap-toothed bastard,” he challenged as the axe was raised above his legs, “You’d better hope you kill me before I rip your fucking knee caps out with my  _ teeth-- _ ”

The axe fell--

There was a roar and a flash of white. Jaskier’s eyes fell shut, flinching with anticipation for the blow that never seemed to come. Another guttural sound of rage had his eyes flying open a moment before his abilities felt like they  _ sang _ in delight. 

The Witcher was forcing the beast’s weapon back with a massive sword of his own, uncaring of the power behind the strike. Bright golden eyes, furious and focused, remained fixed on the creature as it was forced to stumble back a step to keep from being completely knocked off its feet. It left it vulnerable to the neat slash that the sentinel cut across its middle before shifting his grip to slice clean across the undead beast’s neck.

Jaskier gaped, mind scrambling to produce anything but white noise, as the skeletal head rolled to a stop only a few feet away from him.

For a moment, there was nothing but the panting breaths of the two men as they stared at the rapidly decaying corpse. The guide trembled faintly, instinctively trying to shore up his mental shields before he projected the sensation, but unable to find the focus. His eyes remained fixed on the sentinel in front of him as he slowly raised his sword and brought it down hard on the beast’s chest.

Again.

And again.

“S-Sentinel,” Jaskier began shakily and flinched when the Witcher froze.

Slowly, and with eerie grace, the sentinel turned to look directly at him. The weight of those odd golden eyes on him made him tremble, the movement tracked with predatory intent. 

Jaskier had the sudden notion that he might have left one danger for another.

Instead, he felt the terror and panic of the moments before disappearing under a wave of fierce satisfaction that echoed the bloodlust he’d felt in the moments before the sword had dropped. The tug that had dragged him through the crowded tavern the day before was back and Jaskier felt like if he squinted he would be able to trace the golden thread that connected his chest to the sentinel. It thrummed in the air between them, soothing the adrenaline away and replacing it with warm sunlight.

The sentinel stepped forward, movements coiled like he was struggling to keep himself upright.

“Guide…” That bass deep voice rumbled and Jaskier felt his body thrum with eagerness.

He licked his lips, eyes wide. “Sentinel.”

In the next moment, the Witcher had crossed the space between them and had pulled Jaskier up into his arms. The guide found himself surrounded by strong arms and scent of leather and sweat that had lulled him to sleep the night before. He floundered slightly at the sudden shift and felt more than heard the warning growl that was vibrated through the sentinel’s chest.

“Alright, alright,” he soothed, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Instead of answering, the sentinel only grunted and swung them around to stride confidently through the trees. Jaskier considered protesting the familiar treatment, but was too tired to pretend. Here, wrapped in the cradle of the sentinel’s arms, he felt the first bit of peace he’d managed since he’d found out what his designation was.

When he’d first learned why he could feel the depression that sank like a poison in his mother’s bones or felt the dark delight one of his father’s guards felt each time he’d gone into the dungeons, Jaskier had believed his developing abilities were nothing more than a curse. Yet another reason for his father’s growing disdain and his tutor’s sharp looks. He’d imagined what it would be like to meet a sentinel in real life as something close to feeling a noose tighten around his neck until he was trapped forever.

Somehow, none of that seemed to matter now. 

All he wanted to do was tilt his chin slightly so he could hide his face against the warm column of the sentinel’s neck to block out the world. His mind was full of the heady sensation of the sentinel’s primitive pleasure after defeating that creature and the painful prickle of the overload that had sent the Witcher into Jaskier’s life. 

Without thinking, he reached up to press the palm of his hand against the rough stubble of the sentinel’s jaw. The Witcher released a pleased rumble and Jaskier smiled faintly, closing his own eyes to concentrate on pulling away the pain from the overstimulation.

“I’ve got you, sentinel,” he said, feeling the way the Witcher focused on his voice. “You protected me so well. You’re so brave. So strong.”

He kept babbling meaningless nonsense as the sentinel continued to move forward, too tired to spare any thoughts for where they might be going now. Or the clothing he’d abandoned in his frantic rush to escape the creature.

Instead, he continued to pull away the burning lines of fatigue and pain that splintered around his eyes like spiderwebs and made his stomach churn with the memory of the rot lacing the beast’s scent. It was sharper than anything he’d ever felt in his meager trainings with guides who were already flighty and paranoid from years of being on the run. He felt like a tuning fork, struck in some way that made his whole body feel like it was coming awake for the first time.

A shadow fell overhead and he looked up in surprise to find them at the entrance to the cave where they’d made camp the day before. A few yards away, the mare continued to munch on grass, uncaring that she’d abandoned him a few moments before to be killed by some undead nightmare. He sent her a glare that was pointedly ignored.

Jaskier shifted, expecting to be put down, but halted when another growl--louder this time--ripped through the air above him.

He let out a breath, too tired to be scared now that his adrenaline was gone. “You can’t just keep holding me all day, sentinel,” he groused.

In the next moment, Jaskier found himself landing with his back against the soft bedroll. He made a sound similar to a squirrel being stepped on and floundered, trying to get upright. The sentinel pushed him down flat on the bedroll, settling his weight intimately against him.

Flushing bright red, Jaskier tried to push feebly against the broad shoulders in front of him. The sentinel ignored him in favor of rumbling out another sound like a purr vibrating through his chest and burying his head against the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He felt a strange sort of feedback loop as the sentinel’s pleasure and Jaskier’s own spiked at the intimate touch.

“S--” his voice cracked when he felt warm lips brush against his neck, “Sentinel--”

“Geralt.”

The voice made him jump in surprise, tilting his head to look at the white haired Witcher pressing closer. Jaskier released an incredulous laugh. “Is that your name then? Geralt?” he asked and was rewarded with another happy noise. “I’m glad I can finally call you something besides ‘sentinel’ in my head.”

“ _ Guide _ .” The Witcher tilted his head slightly so Jaskier could see one slitted eye peering up at him. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I--I’m Jaskier.”

Another sound, this time frustrated. Jaskier got the feeling that the sentinel wasn’t talkative even without all the other problems of a zone out. He allowed himself the pleasure of sinking his fingers into the the soft silk of his hair and was rewarded by Geralt pressing himself more firmly against the gesture like some great, deadly cat.

This close, Jaskier could feel the way the closeness was affecting the sentinel. The muscles of Geralt’s shoulders shifted beneath his fingertips in a heady roll. Pleasure mixed with a hazy kind of peace filled the air around them until they were both moving restlessly against one another. Warm breath brushed against his skin, making goosebumps break out over his exposed skin.

Abruptly, he was intimately aware of how much of his bare skin was pressed against the fabric of the Witcher’s shirt and pants. It itched and scraped like sandpaper, making him shift uncomfortably. The sensation was fed back to him in waves of burning heat and mindless need.

He wanted to  _ touch _ . To sink into the emotions flooding him and let them pull him under.

“Mine,” Geralt growled, hands possessive brands against Jaskier’s hips, “My guide.”

_ Mineminemineminemine _

Jaskier keened as the sentinel sucked a bruise into the tendon on his neck, throwing his head back with a shocked noise. The Witcher hummed in satisfaction, raking his teeth over the spot. There was a mindless sort of focus to the movement and Jaskier felt a cold sort of realization hit him. 

“We have-- _ oh!  _ We have to stop,” he panted, trying to dig his way out of the barrage of emotion bleeding through his broken shields. “We have to stop.”

_ No _ , the twisting coil of power in his chest shrieked.  _ Bond _ . 

Geralt shook his head, mulish, and Jaskier found himself smiling fondly. “You’re still not in control,” he managed, voice uneven, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

The sentinel moved towards him again, rubbing his stubble against Jaskier’s neck like he was trying to rub his scent into the skin there. 

Summoning the last of his flagging control, Jaskier reached for the kernel of power in his chest and let it seep into his voice like a siren’s song.

“ _ Sleep _ ,” he ordered in a lilting voice.

He pretended like it was a relief when Geralt went limp and silent against him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is curtesy of all of the amazing support from each of you. Truly, you've blown me away with your reactions and sweet comments. I can't seem to stop writing more of these two now.

Geralt came awake in stages.

First came the sensation of a warm body against his side. The fabric of his shirt and pants itched like sandpaper, urging him to seek out the silky softness of bare skin and the sleek strands of coarse hair.

Then it was the steady thump of a heartbeat that continued as a steady lullaby against his fuzzy mind. In the distance, there were other familiar noises that Geralt filtered easily. The noise of Roach’s teeth pulling apart the soft shoots of grass and occasional rustle of leaves as she walked towards more. Birds called to each other and cut through the faint hum of insects and small mammals going about their day.

As his mind slowly rose up out of the depths of his zone-induced collapse, whatever peace he might have attained while asleep was rapidly disappearing.

The heartbeat was too fast. 

He’d thought--he’d  _ hoped _ \--that he’d managed to find Eskel before his overstimulation left him helpless to anyone’s ill will. Or worse, a passing collection of hunters. Eskel would have been able to drag him up from the zone caused by too many days without sleep and the inevitable relapse caused by going to a city without a guide to keep him anchored. The other Witcher was the only guide left in the Wolf School and was the only reason Geralt had managed to remain sane after being on the Path for so long.

He dragged in another breath, testing the air and found himself drowning in the scent of sleepy, happy  _ guide _ .

There was the soft warmth of cedar laced with a faint trace of sweat and  _ fear _ that made his hands tighten around the stranger’s waist where they were pressed intimately together. Instead of comfort, the realization that he’d been this close to a guide while in a zone and out of his mind made panic claw through his mind, ripping away whatever peace he’d once had.

Had he been captured? Where was Eskel? How long had he been in this guide’s thrall?

The only thing that kept him from going into a berserker level panic was the noises that had woken him up. Roach was still here--he could smell the familiar scent of hay, leather, and the special rub Vesemir had given him to soothe sore muscles. The mare was ornery enough that he could be sure she would have broken her lead and run if a stranger had taken her. Likewise, no one would be foolish enough to try to contain a Witcher outside of a cell and in dimeritium cuffs.

It was enough to help him force his eyes open and squint against the bright sunlight. His head pounded in protest as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to adjust, feeling like he was suffering through the worst kind of hangover. The sensation was unfortunately familiar after so many years struggling alone with the inevitable overload that came from wrestling with his abilities at the sacrifice of comfort and an absence of pain.

Blinking away the last of the fuzziness, Geralt’s eyes immediately focused on the face still slack with sleep a few inches away from his own.

Even without the gut punch that came with being around any sentinel, some part of Geralt’s mind went blank with surprise at the delicate beauty of the man’s features. This close, he could pick out the soft smattering of freckles across the arch of his nose and the faint strands of amber weaving in and out of the dark chocolate of his hair. The guide was only dressed in a thin undershirt and smalls, emphasizing the sensation of legs tangling with Geralt’s and strong arms keeping him firmly pressed against a wiry chest.

Geralt frowned at him, trying to discreetly separate himself from the stranger even as the more primitive side of his designation begged him to move closer. To protect. To  _ claim _ .

Immediately, his lips curled in disgust at the thought. Guides were little more than chains in human forms. They were tools in the hands of hunters and commanders, both, to force sentinels into their service and keep them docile and biddable. Geralt had seen too many of his kind fall victim to the pull of the empathetic attacks of a guide--tricked into believing that the peace and calm were anything more than a trick to make them believe they were safe.

He couldn’t let himself become another one.

The guide must have sensed his racing thoughts because he frowned, tucking himself more firmly against Geralt’s front and humming gently. “You’re safe, Sentinel. I’ve got you.” 

His voice was rough with sleep, rasping as though he’d been repeating the comforting words for some time, and Geralt told himself that it was nothing more than the instinctive reaction of a sentinel to a guide that made his blood go hot.

“Who are you?” The Witcher kept his voice clipped, short.

Immediately, the guide jerked awake--eyelids coming open to reveal eyes the color of afternoon sky. They went wide in surprise before creasing at the corners as the guide smiled with something close to relief. “You’re awake!” he said happily, “I was beginning to worry that I hadn’t gotten to you in time.”

Geralt hated the way his eyes could pick out the threads of deeper blue--like an oncoming storm--and even a few flecks of gold that turned those eyes into an artist’s palette of the sky above them. It was devastating against the pale skin and innocent excitement in his expression.

He reminded himself that this was the same person who’d used his abilities to take Geralt here. The soft warmth in his chest was only a reaction of the guide’s manipulation of his senses and his designation.

“What do you want with me?” Geralt asked brusquely, hoping focusing on the questions swirling around his head would keep him from giving in to the temptation to bury his nose in the long line of the other man’s neck.

A slight frown. “I, erm, I was just trying to help.” The guide sounded oddly meek now and the Witcher watched a faint blush curl over his cheeks when he looked down and noticed how intimately they were pressed together. Geralt smelled the burnt amber and cinnamon of his arousal, mixing with the sour tones of embarrassment. “I saw you in the bar and realized that you were zoning.”

Geralt stiffened at the reminder, casting his mind back to his last memories. He remembered half-falling, half-getting off Roach to try to get to the potions in his pack that would stave off the collapse he was hurtling toward. Instead, he’d felt himself walking forward on aching feet toward a tug in the pit of his stomach, some trace of a scent that promised rest and--

The frown on his face deepened as he realized what must have happened.

It was well known that sentinels were drawn to guides--even when they were also Witchers. Their enhanced abilities meant they were even more sensitive than an average sentinel to the overstimulation that could lead to becoming ‘zoned’ and buried so far beneath their sensory input that they couldn’t function. Years of practice ensured that Geralt and the rest of his kind could rely on a series of potions they brewed in Kaer Morhen, dosed out over the rest of the year, and keep themselves from falling apart alone on the Path. It didn’t keeping them from craving  _ more _ , however.

Now he had found himself alone with an armful of a guide that smelled like sunshine and safety and home, forcing himself to hold on to the ragged strands of his own thoughts with gritted teeth.

“How did you know what I am?”

The question was simple, but Geralt needed to give himself time to sort out how much of a threat the guide was. If he was affiliated with Nilfgaard or the hunters that roamed the Continent, he would need to kill him before the connection between them could strengthen into a full-fledged bond. The more training he had, the more likely he would be able to use it against Geralt. The less training he had, the more likely he would do something irreparable.

Either way spelled trouble.

“Oh! I guess I can just tell. I mean, you’re the first sentinel I’ve ever met in person.” The guide gushed before frowning prettily, looking like he was remembering. “All I know is that I could tell you were hurting and I wanted to try to help. Plus, I didn’t want any hunters or anti-sentinels to try to attack you while you were hurting.”

Geralt’s frown deepened. “Did anyone see you with me?”

“Ah, well--” A grin, this time a little rueful, “--I might have had to flee on your horse to get us out of the village.”

A beat.

“You ran…Wait, who followed you?”

“Just a few locals--I would have noticed if there were any hunters.”

He didn’t bother to ask how the guide might be able to tell when there were hunters around. Guides weren’t usually considered as big of a threat as a sentinel and were able to hide their abilities with greater ease. They could pass as any other human. Anyone who might notice their skills could be redirected to another target, their suspicions soothed away by a guide’s fake calm.

Shifting to scrub a hand over his face, he ignored the throb of protest in his chest and tried not to think about the mess he’d found himself in.

“So they know what we are?” he growled.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t stay around to ask.” There was a hint of a challenge in the guide’s tone, but Geralt ignored it.

“Where are we?”

He told himself that the reason he hadn’t tried to sit up and look for himself was because he was still exhausted from the burn out.

The guide looked almost proud as he glanced over his shoulder at the woods outside. “About a half day’s ride south of Posada. I wasn’t sure where it would be safe to hide, but I figured you wouldn’t want to be around any other humans while you were out of it.”

Geralt wasn’t sure how to respond to the thoughtfulness of that gesture or the way the guide seemed to be watching him for some sign of approval.

“Oh!” The guide’s smile was bright sunlight cresting through the gloom of night and Gerealt felt his heart lurch in his chest. Oblivious, the smaller man continued, “I should have introduced myself. I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

That smile widened until he caught sight of a dimple on his left cheek. “You already introduced yourself, actually.”

Geralt frowned, casting his mind back for some memory of speaking to the gui--to Jaskier.

“You probably don’t remember. You were pretty growly at the time.”

The Witcher stared at him, horrified despite his disdain for guides. “I  _ growled _ at you?”

Jaskier looked equally offended by the notion and one hand reached up as though to bat the thought away. “No, you were--well, not exactly a  _ gentleman _ , but you certainly weren’t trying to  _ hurt _ me. You just got a bit worked up when you were protecting me.”

“From villagers?” It wasn’t strange for a sentinel to react to a guide in danger, even if they were zoned beyond conscious thought. It was part of why guides were so much of a threat to them. A sentinel would drive themselves to the brink of devastation if it meant protecting their anchor.

“From the creature,” the guide corrected, looking less frightened at the thought than intrigued. “I’m not sure what it was, to be honest. Some kind of skeletal creature with an axe? It attacked me while I was by the river.”

“Necrophage,” Geralt said absently.

“Is that what it was? Truly, I am in awe of you Witchers’ skills if you face monsters like that on a daily basis. I really thought I was done for. You just came out of nowhere, defeated him with two swings of that massive sword of yours.”

The guide’s ramblings made something in him soften. With his eyes shining and arms gesturing theatrically, Geralt could see how very young he must be. If he had to guess, the man hadn’t been on his own for very long and was still excited by the prospect of an adventure now that he wasn’t staring death in the face.

“Better that you didn’t try to fight it. Necrophage only go down if they’re missing their head or if you’ve got silver in your blade.”

Jaskier looked almost proud as he watched Geralt explain. “I didn’t need to fight it--you came and rescued me.”

“What do you mean? You weren’t with me when it attacked?”

“No, I’d gone to the river to wash and give your mare some water. You were still unconscious then.”

Abruptly, whatever peace he’d felt disappeared under a wash of icy panic. Jaskier frowned, clearly sensing the shift in his mood, but Geralt pushed himself away before he could do more than open his mouth in surprise.

“Geralt?”

Each inch of space between them settled like broken shards of glass against his skin. It grated against his raw senses and he wanted nothing more than to curl up against the guide and let him chase away the sensation. 

Which was exactly why he needed to get the fuck away from here.

Now that he was looking for it, he could sense the near invisible link between himself and the guide a few feet away. It pulled and urged him to close the distance between them like a siren’s song promising rest, peace. An end to the freedom he’d clung to for centuries.

His breath shuddered out of his chest on the edge of a panic attack and he fumbled weakly, stumbling to lean against the rough wall of the cave. A thrum of soothing peace pulse towards Geralt and he snarled, fighting against the pull. It was all a lie. The guide was a hidden blade lurking behind big blue eyes and the masquerade of care. 

Jaskier stared at him in concern, one arm outstretched like he wanted to touch. “Geralt, your emotions are going wild. What’s wrong--”

The Witcher shook his head, backing up like a beast in a trap until his back hit the rough stone wall. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, hand clenching against the rock like it could keep him from moving forward. From sinking in to the pull of the guide’s false promises and poisoned comfort.

But it was already too late. 

_ “You fucking bonded with me.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this reminder that Geralt is an emotionally stunted idiot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotionally constipated Witchers are practically required for anything I write.

A trauma bond.

What had once been a gift designed to save sentinels and guides from overload or a zone so deep they could never recover was now a nightmare Geralt couldn’t wake up from. Even now he could feel the bond burning beneath his skin, urging him to press himself against the full length of the smaller man’s body. He could feel Jaskier’s anxiety like it was his own and the reaction of his own designation to protect the guide from whatever had upset him. 

“I--I didn’t,” the guide protested, doe eyes wide in his pale face, “I swear, I would  _ never _ \--”

“You’ve been linking with me since you found me, yes?” The sentinel accused, irritation lacing his voice until it cracked like a whip. When the guide flinched, he curled his lip in disgust. “Stop projecting at me.”

Immediately, the emotions that had been thrumming through the bond steadily since he’d woken up cut off with a suddenness that left him feeling off balance. He told himself he didn’t miss the warmth of the guide’s mind curling around his like the warmth of a blanket. The sooner he figured out how to break the bond completely, the better for both of them. It was hard enough for him to evade hunters when he was traveling by himself--it would be next to impossible if there were two of them.

Jaskier nodded warily before rushing forward to defend the action. “Nothing invasive--I just tried to help your pain and keep you from zoning. You, you were pretty bad back there and I couldn’t just  _ leave _ you.”

Geralt made a disgusted noise. “I didn’t need your help.”

For the first time, he could smell the ash and bitter charcoal of the guide’s anger fill the air like the warmth of a fire against his skin. The guide’s eyes furrowed into a scowl that rivaled Geralt’s own. He sat up, skin pebbling with the chilly morning breeze and Geralt did  _ not _ think about why he felt the need to offer his shirt.

“Yes, I’m sure big strong sentinels like yourself don’t need anyone’s help--especially not from washed out guides. My mistake.” Sarcasm dripped from every bitten off word.

The Witcher gritted his teeth in a barely smothered snarl, enunciating each syllable. “I never asked for your help.”

“No, I was just the asshole who decided to help anyway.”

For a moment, they just glared at each other. The air between them was choked with the sharp smells of Jaskier’s disappointment, anger, and a myriad of emotions that Geralt didn’t care to identify. He took a breath, trying to get control of his anger and the guilt that he wasn’t sure came from him or the guide.

Forcing his tone to remain even, he tried to school himself into something close to civility. “What do you want from me?”

“A ‘thank you’ would suffice.” Jaskier crossed his arms over his lean chest, a challenge in his blue eyes.

Geralt’s molars gritted together with a muffled noise. “Thank. You.”

“You’re welcome,” the guide’s words were laced with insincere politeness. He even batted those ridiculously long lashes of his, dramatic as any noblewoman. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier huffed out a bitter sounding laugh and got to his feet. The bond between them stretched taut as the human moved further away and Geralt felt like he could feel each inch like a shard of glass digging beneath his skin. He watched the guide tug at the hem of the thin undershirt he still wore, a bitter twist to his mouth. 

With each movement, the belief that Jaskier was just another one of the guides who preyed on the designation of sentinels foolish enough to believe soft features and wide eyes couldn’t hide a venomous nature seemed more and more unlikely. Even so, he told himself, it was better to keep the man at arm’s length until they were free from the trauma bond. He knew better than anyone that guides were dangerous at best and deadly at worst. The happily ever after of the first guides and sentinels was nothing more than a children’s story.

“Where did you train?” he asked abruptly, ready for any information that would confirm his suspicions. “Aretuza? Ban Ard?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Like I’d be dumb enough to let anyone know I was a guide.”

“How did you know I was zoning then?”

A shrug. “I just knew. You were in pain and I thought I could help before some hunter stumbled across you.” Blue eyes flicked over at him with a hint of curiosity. “What happened to you anyway?”

Geralt went silent, looking away to avoid eyes that felt like they saw too much. He knew the guide could feel the emotions he wasn’t able to hide through their bond. For all a sentinel’s speed and strength, they possessed very few ways to guard against the skills of a powerful enough guide. Even knowing he’d been bound to the other man, he still wanted to slip back into the peace and warmth that had surrounded him when he first woke up.

It made him want to tell the other man about what it was like to reach a village where the cries of parents could be heard long before you saw the first house. He wanted to describe how little satisfaction could be found in sinking his blade deep into the heart of a beast when the bodies of its victims were broken and bruised on the ground around them. Or the way his abilities never seemed to be fast enough or strong enough to make any real kind of difference. There would always be another monster, another sharp word, and another town eager to see the back of him after he presented the bloodied head of whatever creature he’d been sent to hunt.

Instead, he just shrugged weakly. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looked at him for a long moment, eyes far too perceptive to miss the pain lurking beneath Geralt’s gruff exterior. Almost absently, Geralt could feel the guide reaching through the bond to soothe away the headache left behind by the days without eating and easing the terror that had been choking him since he’d first realized who he was laying next to. Something softened in the guide’s expression, a kind of understanding that made the Witcher want to hide again.

“So what do we do now?” Jaskier asked, allowing Geralt the retreat without protest.

“Did anyone follow you?”

“No,” the guide shook his head. “I was careful to keep us both shielded while we were in town. And I’ve been watching for any sign of hunters while you were out.”

Geralt considered their options along with the bond still tugging him forward. It felt like if he just squinted his eyes just right he’d be able to see it, gleaming silver bright. 

A true bond between sentinels and guides relied on some sort of agreement between both parties to truly last. Trauma bonds were only meant to last for long enough for both parties to recover from whatever injury had left them unable to function on their own. It would remain in place until time and distance helped it fade.

He reached out before he could stop himself and wrapped one hand around Jaskier’s ankle, avoiding his eyes. “We have to stay together.” Jaskier’s eyes snapped to his, surprise evident and he continued defensively, “Until the bond fades.”

“Right--” The guide’s voice sounded oddly breathless and Geralt tried not to think about the low thrum of happiness that pulsed through their connection or the scent of bright citrus in Jaskier’s scent, “--ah, right. Until the bond fades.”

Satisfied, Geralt got to his feet and scowled down at his sweat soaked clothes. He stank like old sweat and the leftover bitter turmeric of his own pain. In the corner of his eye, he tracked the way Jaskier shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, arms wrapped around his middle like he was struggling to stay warm while he tugged out clean clothes from his own pack.

After a few more minutes of this, Geralt finally shot him a look. “Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” he asked, a growing thread of suspicion curling through him.

What had the guide done while he was unconscious?

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I realize you think I’m some sort of beast, but I would never take advantage of you while you were out of your mind.” Jaskier glared at him from a few feet away, looking like he was considering smacking the sentinel on the head. He gestured to his scant clothing with a flourishing hand, “That  _ thing _ that attacked me caught me right after I’d gone to wash at the stream. After you rescued me, you were pretty adamant that I stay as close as possible.”

A hot flush curled up the back of his neck at the implication. 

Instead of responding, Geralt pulled an older shirt and pair of pants and tossed them over to the other man. “Put those on.”

He ignored the primitive satisfaction that grew at the thought of the guide being surrounded by his scent, marked as his.

The other man made an offended noise at the worn cotton, but didn’t protest. It hung around his leaner frame like a sail, leaving a tantalizing view of the line of his collarbone. The dark fabric made him seem smaller somehow, untouchable as a daydream darting away as soon as you attempted to hold on to him.

_ Mine _ , the primitive part of his soul rumbled.

“We should get back to the road,” his mouth said, “if there are necrophage here, they’ll only keep coming.”

Jaskier nodded and glanced out to where Roach was still tethered. “Is it safe for me to go look for my stuff? I don’t want to walk barefoot.”

_ No. Stay. _

Ignoring the urge to draw the guide into the shelter of his own body until he was safe and warm and protected, Geralt gestured toward the trees with a free hand while he tugged on his own boots. “Go. I’ll follow once I get Roach.”

“Roach?”

“The mare.”

Jaskier’s lips twisted with mirth. “Why--you know what? Nevermind.”

The sentinel watched him go without a sound. Each step felt like a test to his fragile control, a ticking clock counting down to an explosion. 

He managed ten steps before he was rushing out to drag Jaskier into the shelter of his arms and burying his nose into soft brown hair. His lungs filled with the scent of cedar and soft vanilla of Jaskier’s hesitant surprise mingling with the earthier notes of his own clothing. Instead of jerking away from the Witcher’s hold, the guide remained still, exuding the same peace and calm that felt unattainable when they were apart.

A pair of surprisingly strong arms slowly circled Geralt’s waist and he felt Jaskier’s breath brush over the skin of his neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It felt like sinking into a warm bath as muscles he hadn’t realized were clenched slowly released with each heartbeat. A low hum rumbled like a purr from the guide, soothing the leftover pain from his aching head faster than any potion.

“You’re okay,” a newly familiar voice murmured like a mantra. “We’re both okay.”

Geralt opened his mouth to respond, but it was another person entirely who spoke up.

“Well now, isn’t this cozy?”

The sentinel whirled, pushing Jaskier behind him in a quick move. He had enough time to take in the sight of the men stepping out of the trees in front of him--the sound of their movement hidden beneath the sound of the nearby river--before one of the men lobbed a glass container at the ground at Geralt’s feet.

Instantly, the world was swallowed in a blaze of burning light and sound.

He stumbled, blinking in a weak attempt at chasing away the dancing outlines and shadows from his vision. His hearing was nothing more than the muffled shout of stranger’s voices and a high pitched ringing that felt like an icepick against his skull. The sentinel reached out blindly, fingers brushing against warm skin a moment before he felt Jaskier be pulled bodily away from him.

“ _ Don’t _ !” he tried to protest, only to be shoved back with laughable ease.

Something struck his side hard enough to send him stumbling with the help of his spinning equilibrium. He made a rough sound when he landed against the earth, a sharp stone slicing into his forehead. Cruel laughter rang in his ears as the weight of someone’s foot shoved him flat against the earth and left him vulnerable.

_ Hunters _ , his foggy mind produced through the haze left behind by the bomb they’d set off.

It was the only explanation for the way the group had so easily targeted the weaknesses that came with a sentinel’s enhanced senses. Their sharp hearing and eyes meant that the specialized bombs the hunters used left sentinels nearly blind and deaf, dizzied by the overload to their senses. Without their hearing or sight, it was almost impossible to find--let alone defend--themselves against the forces that were attempting to subdue themselves.

Through the bond, he could feel his guide’s panic even through the surprisingly strong shields he’d had in place since Geralt had reawakened. It made him thrash against the hands of the men pinning him to the ground. Everything within him roared with the need to find, to protect his guide until he felt like he would go mad with it.

The tree branches above his spun and twisted wildly with the aftereffects of the attack, making his stomach roll in protest. Blood trickled out of one of his ears, adding to his misery. He heard the sound of someone shouting his name as though he was underwater and turned his head toward the voice--as though he could find Jaskier through sheer force of will.

“J--Jaskier…” His tongue felt thick in his mouth, fumbling over the name instead of shouting for him to run like he wanted to.

His guide needed to escape. He had to get away before they realized just what they’d stumbled across. A sentinel was easy to spot and they’d obviously intended to subdue him quickly before dragging him off to whoever was willing to pay the highest cost for him. They must have recognized him for what he was back in Posada. He knew what future was waiting for him at the end of the chains they would wrap around his neck, but Jaskier still had a chance if they didn’t know his designation.

The sound of metal clanking together made something within break. Dimeritium cuffs. They were the only thing strong enough to hold a sentinel, draining their power to the level of a human. He tried to fight against the cruel hands keeping him still, but he was too disoriented and blinded by pain to do more than buck and twist weakly.

Geralt felt the metal close around his wrists like a man feeling a noose closing around his neck. His mouth opened--to scream or to roar, he wasn’t sure. 

All he knew was that there was no way to escape now.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliff hanger?? Stay tuned for Jaskier's POV.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter is "Jaskier Fucks Shit Up."

It was a marker for how focused Jaskier had been on the sentinel holding him that he didn’t sense the hunters until they had already launched their attack.

For years, the only thing that kept him safe and out of the hunter’s cells were the shields he’d built up around his own powers. He’d perfected shielding to the point that he could keep himself blocked even when he was asleep. Such things came with the cost of near constant headaches and exhaustion, but he was used to it. He had to be.

Now, he was reminded just how much that remained true.

The hunters converged on Geralt like they’d practiced the move a hundred times before. Whatever had been in the bomb they’d thrown at the sentinel’s feet had been loud and bright enough that even Jaskier flinched away from it--he couldn’t imagine how overwhelming it would be with a Witcher and sentinel’s senses. The sentinel’s body had blocked the worst of the effects and had shoved him back several steps in an attempt to keep him out of range of the attack. He’d been left blinking away black dots in his vision while Geralt staggered like he’d been struck. Through their bond, Jaskier could feel the waves of pain and disorientation bleeding from the sentinel like a sickness.

“Geralt!” he called, hand outstretched toward the sentinel.

Before he could do anything, three of the hunters converged on the Witcher, knocking him to the ground hard enough to send his head snapping against the earth with a dull thud. He could see those golden eyes trying to focus on the movements around him, pupils blown wide and unfocused from the attack. They focused on the sentinel with vicious intent, using the disorientation of the warrior to prevent him from being able to use his own gifts to his advantage.

It made something cold twist in his stomach at the sight. No wonder Geralt had been so afraid of being caught by hunters or the guide that sometimes worked alongside them. It was pure luck that there didn’t seem to be a guide assisting this group--which explained why they were using brute force to keep the sentinel off balanced and weakened. They didn’t seem to recognize Jaskier’s skills either which meant they probably didn’t possess any extrasensory gifts.

One of the hunters noticed him for the first time and gestured to one of the others impatiently. “Take care of the whore,” he ordered as he pressed his full weight against Geralt’s chest and arm. He turned to shout to the man closest to their gear. “Silas! Get the cuffs!”

The hunter quickly tugged out a set of dull metal cuffs that made Jaskier take a step back in instinctive fear. Demiritium, Jaskier thought with a mental bleat of panic. If they managed to cuff Geralt, he would be helpless against them. They would probably drag him off to the black markets that were in every large city now, a dark stain that every noble pretended not to see. If he was lucky, Geralt would be sent off to join the special units of some military. If he wasn’t, he might be used in the underground fighting rings or retrained to be anything from an assassin to an enforcer for some wealthy man’s forces.

The Witcher made a wounded sound and bucked against the men piling on top of him, cruelly pinning him to the earth. He was beginning to flag, strength draining beneath the effects of the attack on his senses. One of the hunters used his knee to press Geralt’s arm to the earth, extending it out so they could slip the cuff closed around his wrist. 

The snick of the lock seemed unnaturally loud amidst the chaos in the clearing. It should have been a thunderclap, a roar of wildfire--anything but the silence that suddenly replaced the bond formed between them. Gone as though it had never been there at all.

That easily, something inside of him  _ snapped _ .

Jaskier’s shields on his abilities crumbled like ash in the wind as he took a deep breath, centering himself against the hurricane of rage building in his chest. They filled his lungs like an inferno, burning through the fear that had overwhelmed him at the first sight of the hunters.

_ No _ , he swore as the hunter’s leader shifted to close the other cuff around the sentinel’s wrist.

_ No _ , he thought as Geralt went limp.

**_No_ ** **.**

The hunter who’d been tasked with restraining him while they carted Geralt away moved toward him with his hands outstretched, rope dangling from one hand. “No need to make this difficult, boy. If you follow instructions, we’ll leave you in Posada--safe and sound.”

There was no need for his abilities to hear the lie in each word.

Jaskier’s smile was razors over icy snow, eyes flashing with malice as he turned his attention on the man. This was the sort of man who’d ensured his childhood was full of nightmares. He’d spent countless nights curled into a ball, pressing his fist against his mouth to suppress the shuddering breath left behind by dreams of being locked away in one of the ‘rehabilitation camps’ where people like him would be trained to be good little guides. 

All that time.  _ All _ that time he’d let hunters like this one dictate every moment of his life. He’d let the terror of discovery chase him away from every friendship, every hint of a possible home because it was easier than fighting, than losing something precious. Jaskier had drifted with the seasons--trapped in an endless cycle of running until he was on the edge of collapse. His life was nothing more than surviving, not living.

No longer.

Now he dug deep into the well of fear that had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. It leapt forward eagerly, greedy for a chance to expand without the walls he’d spent so long building up. He dragged it up until it flooded the air around him and focused his eyes on his target, his  _ victim _ .

The one sent to capture him fell first, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. He made an awful, broken sound as he clawed at his face. Tears streamed down his face as he thrashed, mindless beneath a mindless sensation of terror. Pain throbbed at Jaskier’s temples, but he ignored it to watch the man finally go limp with vicious satisfaction.

His power swept outwards, emboldened by the body of his first target twitching in the dead leaves. He watched the hunters surrounding Geralt stiffen and turn in surprise towards the human they’d been so quick to dismiss with a small, deadly smile. Their eyes went wide with a growing fear that Jaskier planted into their very souls.

“Get the cuffs!” The leader shouted, but it was already too late.

Blood dripped freely from his nose as he continued to pour every dark thought, every painful emotion into the hunters. It erupted from him like a seismic wave that left only pain in its wake. He watched their eyes go wide and wild, mouths opening on screams too painful to release. The only one who escaped the devastation was the sentinel still panting on his back a few feet away, though Jaskier didn’t dare look at him.

He knew what he would say.

_ Monster _ , his mother’s voice whispered in his mind.

His father’s parting words rose up to join hers,  _ If only you’d died before you brought this shame on our family name. _

They fell to their knees, crawling forward in a pathetic attempt to attack or escape the waves of power pinning them in place. He let the weight of his abilities pin them in place in a mimicry of what they’d done to the Witcher moments earlier. Distantly, he heard their horses spook and bugle in terror as one of the men began to seize.

The guide watched it all with a detached sort of focus, committed to ensuring none of the hunters would ever hurt another guide or sentinel again. Even if he had to break them to manage it.

“Jaskier…” The sentinel murmured from somewhere behind him, but he didn’t-- _ couldn’t- _ -look away from the men on their knees before him. Liquid dripped onto his lip and he wiped the blood from his nose in a quick gesture.“Jaskier, you have to stop.”

“No.” His voice was guttural. Torn from a throat that was raw with the screams he couldn’t release.

_ He’ll be afraid of me now, _ he thought darkly.  _ It’s alright. I’m afraid of me too.  _

Screams filled the once peaceful clearing. A chorus of pleading, weeping voices begging for relief, for mercy. 

But he had none. 

Closing his hand into a fist, he focused on the cowering forms and was rewarded with a new wave of keening screams. The fear he created hung like a miasma on the clearing, curling around him like smoke to a fire. He could feel the first of their minds splintering beneath the weight of his power, bleeding out of existence like purging a wound.

“Jaskier.” This time there was a hint of pleading in Geralt’s voice and Jaskier felt his control waver. “ _ Guide _ , you’re hurting yourself.”

“They hurt you,” he said, eyes flinty. “They were going to take you away.”

“They can’t. Not now. You made them stop.”

Jaskier trembled, swaying like a tree in the breeze. He frowned at the bodies of the hunters in front of him. “They were  _ hurting _ you.” The men on the ground writhed as the reminder made him redouble his attack.

He flinched when something touched him, nearly lashing out until he recognized the silver of Geralt’s hair against his leg. The bond between himself and the sentinel was smothered by the cuffs that were still locked around his wrists. The sentinel must have been forced to half-crawl, half-hobble across the distance between them to reach Jaskier. Just the sight of the metal bracketing the smooth skin was enough to make him turn back to the hunters with a snarl.

They deserved to suffer for that alone.

Geralt pressed himself more firmly against Jaskier’s legs like he could sense the dark path his thoughts had taken. His fingers pushed past the barrier of the guide’s pants to touch the bare skin of his calf, thumb sweeping out in silent comfort. The warmth of the sentinel’s body seemed to seep into the icy core of power Jaskier had been feeding in his desire to punish the hunters for daring to harm his anchor.

“They hurt you,” he repeated.

The sentinel’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “I think they regret that now.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicked back to the weeping, whimpering men on the ground nearby. They were barely conscious, barely alive now and he was eager to ensure that they would never be a threat again. He took another breath that tasted like blood and pain, ready to redouble his attack, when Geralt tugged his leg to draw his attention back to him.

He furrowed his brow, clinging to his anger like a man at the edge of a cliff. “They deserve worse,” he growled.

The sentinel tugged at him once more, forcing his attention away from the violence beginning to surge. “Help me, guide,” he crooned with a gentle rustle of the cuffs at his wrists, “I can’t get these off on my own.”

Jaskier hesitated, torn between the need to ensure that the hunters wouldn’t be able to get back up again and the urge to see for himself that his sentinel was safe. Finally, he crouched down and nearly collapsed as the adrenaline fueled anger that had kept him upright began to wane. He frowned down at the cuffs, trying to decide how to remove them and then ensure that they could never be used again.

His fingers felt unnaturally graceless as he plucked at the locks. It was a simple enough contraption thankfully, designed to be used to quickly subdue and drain the victim without risking the loss of a key--and the sentinel or guide--in the process. This close, he could make out the painful looking black veins that trailed up past the bracket to spread along his forearm. They both let out a soft noise of relief when Jaskier’s fumbling finally resulted in the cuffs falling to the ground.

Immediately, the warmth of the bond flared like the first rays of the sun after a long winter. He felt himself shivering in the wake of it, leaning forward to try to soak up more of it. 

A gentle thumb reached out to brush away the tears that Jaskier hadn’t realized were running freely down his cheeks. Jaskier looked up to find Geralt only a few inches away from him, honeyed eyes trailing over the guide’s face. He imagined it wasn’t a pretty sight--blood was dripping freely from his nose and his eyes had gone bloodshot with the side effects of releasing his powers so violently.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked.

The guide trembled, torn between the urge to sink into the comfort of his sentinel’s touch and the knowledge that Geralt would never be able to look at him the same way again.

He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the ground rushing up to meet him as he passed out.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it really one of my stories if I don't let Jaskier go absolutely feral once or twice?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lot of internal monologue in this chapter, but hopefully gives some insight into Geralt's perspective.

Geralt barely had the strength to catch the guide as his eyes roll back in his head and he collapsed.

It settled something deep within him to feel the slight weight and warmth of the other man pressed against him. The primitive side of himself wanted to crow at the trust from his new bondmate, to pull him closer and prove he was worth it. The Witcher was now uncomfortably aware of just how little Jaskier seemed to need his protection.

He scanned the clearing as he lifted the man into his arms, taking in the depths of the destruction. The effects of the hunter’s bomb had left him nearly deaf and blind to what was happening around him--until he realized the screaming wasn’t just the ringing in his ears.

Jaskier had been nearly incandescent in his rage, standing like a beacon beside the hunters who were foolish enough to think that a sentinel was the biggest threat that would face in the woods that day. They must have assumed that Jaskier was just a human in love or traveling with a sentinel and Witcher. Maybe they’d even thought he was just another hunter who’d recognized Geralt before word had reached the larger group.

Their mistake.

Guides were often thought to be the weaker of the two designations. People saw the speed and strength of a sentinel and naturally thought  _ soldier _ . Reality was, a sentinel was only as good as their anchor, their guide. A good guide was the only way to survive the inevitable fallout of their overloaded senses, unable to survive in a world full of too many crowded spaces. Battlefields were hardly quiet or subtle affairs after all.

In comparison, guides didn’t need a sentinel to manage their abilities. All they needed to do was avoid projecting their own emotions and the emotions of crowds and no one would ever notice the guide in their midst. Part of the difficulty in training powerful guides was in  _ finding _ those guides.

Jaskier must have been truly gifted or truly lucky to have escaped their notice this long. Even Geralt hadn’t guessed at the depths of his power until the moment before they’d been unleashed on his unlucky target. Even now, he would have a hard time believing it if he wasn’t surrounded by the evidence of what he was capable of.

He kept the guide cradled to his chest, unable to resist the urge to clutch at the bond that still linked them. The bond echoed with the exhaustion that left Jaskier limp in his arms along with the same pain that had left Geralt crawling on hands and knees to his guide. In the moment, he’d been nearly mindless at the sight of the blood dripping from Jaskier’s nose and the faint tremor that shivered through his limbs.

Even with such obvious pain, Jaskier hadn’t stopped attacking the men who’d shackled Geralt. Not until the sentinel had asked him to stop, to help release him.

Geralt wasn’t sure what to think about that.

So, the Witcher did what he did best--he focused on the task at hand. It was too much to hope that this would be the end of the hunters who were following them. There would be more coming, and soon. A bonded sentinel and powerful guide were too appealing to allow to escape.

Roach made an annoyed sound when he whistled for her to come closer. Her nostrils flared at the scent of blood and misery that filled the air around them in a nauseating cloud. He kept his own breaths carefully shallow to avoid processing the mixture of tears, vomit and fouler liquids coating their attackers. Even with the help of the bond with his guide, Geralt had no interest in identifying any details.

Thankfully, his mare, while irritable, was more than familiar with the more disgusting elements of life with a Witcher.

He settled Jaskier gingerly upon her back, fussing with the unconscious man until he was sure he wasn’t in danger of falling off. His thumb brushed aside the line of blood marking the smooth line of his cheek in something another person might call a caress. Then, he turned back to the hunters still laying across the ground in various states of disarray. When he concentrated, he could tell that one of them was already dead--most likely from the heart attack triggered by the fear Jaskier had flooded them with.

Next, he carefully pulled apart each part of the dimeritium cuffs, taking great pleasure in crushing the pieces. Each of the fragments were buried in separate locations as far away as he dared with Jaskier still unconscious. No one would ever be locked away by these again. 

Geralt moved on to the packs and supplies each man had carried. He ignored the various ropes and chains with a curl of distaste. The food and extra bedroll would be useful as would the extra pair of boots from the man closest to Jaskier’s size. He didn’t bother with any of their clothing, curling his lip at the idea of letting the guide smell like anyone other than himself. They would need to travel as light as possible if they were going to avoid the bands that would be searching the area for any sign of the sentinel they sought.

At least he could be sure these hunters wouldn’t be coming after them any time soon. Still, he relieved them of their weapons and tossed them far enough away that they’d be impossible to find. Part of him was almost curious to see if the average human could recover from the kind of havoc Jaskier had unleashed on them. As it was, he was happy to leave them to the necrophages that roamed the region.

One of the horses was still wide-eyed and connected to the treelimb their rider had used to keep it in place while they went for Geralt. The gelding’s eyes rolled with alarm when Geralt stepped closer, but settled down after a few soft words and steady hands. He untied it and walked it over to where Roach was watching him with a gimlet stare.

“You aren’t going to want to carry both of us,” he told her when her ears went flat with warning. “So you either play nice or get ready for the extra work.”

Roach nipped at the gelding when it leaned forward to sniff her, but allowed the indignity of Geralt tying his reins to her saddle. 

Despite his assurances that he wasn’t going to force the mare to carry them both, Geralt climbed onto the saddle behind Jaskier and settled the guide firmly into his lap. He ignored the way that the faint trace of anxiety that had reappeared as soon as he’d walked away to deal with the hunters disappeared as soon as he had his arms around the guide. She grumbled a complaint, but headed down the faint game trail that would lead them back to the road.

At this rate, there would be no way to remove the bond linking them without causing both of them the pain and devastation of a broken connection. Sentinels and guides naturally were drawn to each other for a reason and, when both parties were willing, their soul bonds were nearly unbreakable outside of death or full rejection. A trauma bond was naturally weaker, but was easier to build in times of war and stress. The bond flourished when partners built on the growing trust by proving themselves as a worthy mate. If Jaskier continued to demonstrate his willingness to reinforce the bond with his own self-sacrifice, Geralt might find himself connected in a way he’d been avoiding all his life.

It was one thing to turn to Eskel each winter to bandage over the physical and mental injuries that were left behind by remaining unanchored for so long. The guide was the only one left in the Wolf School and tolerated the extra work of ensuring his brother didn’t go insane from overload. Lambert, at least, had been happily bonded with his own guide and fellow Witcher for nearly a decade and no longer needed him.

For a moment, he tried to imagine what it would be like to return to Kaer Morhen with a guide, bonded and anchoring him. Vesemir and the others would no doubt give him all sorts of shit for finally settling down--especially after the debacle of his relationship with Yennefer. He winced at the reminder.

Jaskier shivered against him and Geralt shifted to press him more firmly against his front, needing the assurance of the act of protecting the guide even in such a small way. His lungs were full of the strange mixture of sunlight and exhaustion and he felt the last of the headache that had lingered after the attack ease.

He pushed Roach through the last of the trees and pulled her to a stop at the edge of the road, listening hard for any signs of more hunters. The last thing they needed was to get trapped by a group of hunters that were more prepared than the last--he doubted they would be lucky twice.

Geralt pushed the horses down the dirt path, angling away from Posada and towards the north. If he kept moving, they could put enough distance between the town and whatever hunters might be looking for them still. Kaer Morhen was too far away to manage, but if he kept heading north, there was more of a chance that he could find some allies around the way.

He just had to keep them both alive until then.

* * *

The Witcher doesn't bring the horses to a stop until the path became too dark for the horses to navigate. 

Jaskier was still limp and unresponsive against him. If it weren’t for the steady beat of the guide’s heart in his ears and the faint thrum of power going through the bond, he would be almost mindless with worry for the human. His power had been nearly incandescent while he’d been attacking the men pinning Geralt. Now, it was a dim ember buried beneath enough exhaustion that even the sentinel wanted to curl up and sleep.

Instead, he forced himself to move the horses far enough off the road that he could risk a fire to chase away the night’s chill. He didn’t want to risk the guide becoming sick while he was still weak from the attack.

The horses didn’t protest when he hobbled the two of them within easy reach. Roach continued to give the gelding the hairy eyeball anytime the horse moved closer, but the placid grey seemed indifferent to her obvious displeasure. Geralt rubbed each of them down as quickly as he could, checking their hooves for any stones and their coats for saddle sores. Their survival rested on both horses remaining as healthy as possible. He smirked a little when he caught the gelding resting its head against the mare’s neck in quiet affection.

Jaskier’s breath was uneven when he returned to their makeshift campsite, brow furrowed like he was having a nightmare. The guide looked painfully tired still and a new thread of guilt curled in his gut at the sight of it.

How long had Jaskier been safe and hidden behind the shields Geralt had witnessed firsthand? It was obvious the guide was powerful now that they’d seen it first hand, but equally obvious that there was no training behind the attacks earlier that day. Jaskier had been moving forward with nothing, but his rage to keep him upright. That, and the same protective  _ need _ that had tempered Geralt’s movements since then.

It made it easier to reach out and tug Jaskier up against his chest where he could curl around him like a living shield. Made it easier to accept the comfort of burying his nose against the curling brown strands and fill his lungs with the scent of sunshine and the bitter tang of the pain that had sent the guide into unconsciousness.

Then to let his eyes fall shut and allow himself to finally rest.

* * *

The next morning Jaskier was still sleeping heavily when Geralt finally stirred and moved away from the warmth of their shared bedroll.

The guide seemed to be resting a little easier now at least. It would take time before the dark circles under his eyes were gone, but his skin wasn’t as pale as it had been yesterday. His heartbeat was a slow and steady rhythm in the back of his mind, acting like a metronome as he began setting up a simple breakfast from the food he’d stolen from the hunters.

For his part, Geralt felt like he’d slept for days on a soft mattress instead of the hard ground. The headache and burning irritation that had been his constant companion were all but gone. He couldn’t remember the last time--even with Eskel’s help--that he’d felt so in control of himself and the abilities he’d been born with. If it’s because of the fledgling bond or Jaskier, he wasn’t sure. Either way, they have bigger concerns right now.

_ Worry, worry, worry,  _ Eskel’s voice teased in his mind. _ It’s all I ever get from you. _

He wondered what the other guide would think if Geralt brought Jaskier to Kaer Morhen with him.

The thought lingered with him as he built up a small fire to boil some water and make a quick mash. If the guide was anything like a sentinel after a crash, he’d be starving and needing food to replace the energy he’d burned.

A few moments after he finished the quick breakfast, Geralt’s efforts were rewarded by the sound of Jaskier stirring from under the bedroll. He looked over in time to see a tousled dark hair poking out from the blanket to stare blearily at the trees around him.

“I have food,” Geralt said softly, smothering a grin when Jaskier’s head snapped towards him.

The guide moved toward him like he was unsure of his welcome, blanket wrapped around his shoulders in a meager shield. He settled onto a rock across from Geralt and eyed the food with something close to greed. “Is that for me?” he rasped, voice raw.

Geralt grunted and offered him the loaf of travelor’s bread he’d found with the hunters and a small wedge of cheese. Jaskier tore into the offering with relish, eyes occasionally darting over to Geralt before refocusing on the food in front of him.

It was obvious that the guide was unsure about where they stood after everything that had happened. To be honest, Geralt wasn’t sure he knew what he wanted either. 

The thought of being bound to another person had always been a source of anxiety for him. He didn’t like the idea of being trapped, forever attached to a stranger. Bonds were rarely created based on any sort of love and affection in a world where guides and sentinels were targets. They were no better than alliances and a way to ensure both parties might survive a little longer.

He thought of the way Jaskier had saved him in the clearing and again back in Posada. The guide hadn’t fought to make Geralt stay or accept the trauma bond linking them. He imagined the bond like an invisible chain between them, but felt none of the wariness and dread that had colored all of his interactions with guides in the past. There was only warmth and comfort, like a sun warmed sweater chasing away the chill of a cold morning.

It made it easier to nod his head in the direction of the horses.

  
“We better get moving if we’re going to make good time today.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened with surprise. “You...want me to go with you?” he asked cautiously.

“Unless you have better things to do?”

The grin the guide leveled at him was like the first breath of air after being underwater too long--relief and desire for more all at once. Geralt found his mind going blank in the wake of it.

“I’ve always wanted to see what Witchers really do.”

And that’s that.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The classic bard and Witcher set up


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see how the boys handle life on the road...
> 
> TW: For reference to the intent to rape. It is not explicit nor does it feature any core characters and is stopped before anything happens.

They manage to spend a full week in the wilderness before Jaskier’s fear of being caught is overwhelmed by his utter disdain for living outdoors.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t spent more than a few nights with only glittering stars serving as a roof. Like any bard, his ability to sleep in a warm bed would only happen if the crowds were feeling generous and if he wasn’t buried under the various costs that came with a life of wandering. Occasionally, the churning emotions of a crowded tavern was its own torture, making the hard earth and thin bedroll seem like a gift instead of a curse.

Geralt, for his part, seemed immune to the dust and the bugs and chill of the woods. The only symptom of the bond that continued to hum happily in each of their chests was the silent protectiveness that tempered each of the sentinel’s movements. He remained constantly vigilant when they moved during the day and restless at night. It was only when Jaskier could feel exhaustion beginning to hang like a migraine around the sentinel’s head that he would finally dain to be tugged into the bedroll to curl against the guide’s side, breathing going deep and even with sleep.

Six days after the attack, Jaskier finally put his foot down. 

“We need to find a town,” he said, trying to sound no nonsense.

Geralt immediately turned in his saddle to frown at him, golden eyes darting over him like he was searching for an injury he’d missed. “Why? Are you hurt?”

_ Sentinels _ , he thought with an exasperated huff. 

For all Geralt’s stubbornness and silent demeanor, he still seemed unable to resist the instinctive needs of a sentinel. It was as much a part of himself as the traits created by the trials that made him a Witcher. Frankly, Jaskier was impressed at how much he’d managed to repress in order to remain on the Path without an anchor for so long.

“I’m fine. I just can’t keep hiding out in the wilderness. I’m a  _ bard _ , Geralt--I need to be performing if I’m going to survive. Walking doesn’t pay the bills.”

The Witcher looked offended at the implication that he wouldn’t be able to keep the guide safe and well fed on his own, so Jaskier continued before he could begin to argue.

“Besides,” he said, “you should be looking for contracts too.”

“We don’t know if they’re still looking for us.”

Jaskier shrugged and gave the man a sunny smile. “Good thing I have you to protect me then.”

* * *

He felt the burning waves of the crowd’s emotions long before he saw the first rooftop breaking the treeline in front of him. If he weren’t busy shoring up his shields and burying his abilities deep within him, he would wonder which of their senses had a farther reach. Might be useful to them in case of another attack.

At his side, he could practically taste the tension that was radiating from the sentinel. It felt like brittle waves of glass, ready to break at the slightest gesture. Jaskier wanted to reach out, to soothe away the furrows in his brow, but he wasn’t sure if Geralt would accept the comfort.

Things were still tense between them despite the continued presence of their trauma bond. Even if their designations would always drive them together, they were still essentially strangers. If anything, the bond made it almost impossible to trust that anything they experienced was true.

Geralt was understandably guarded about Jaskier being in his space, that much was clear. When he lowered his shields and  _ listened _ to what the sentinel projected in the air around him, they were infinitely more complicated than the grunts and frowns that filled the rest of their interactions. The Witcher was all  _ worry _ and  _ hypervigilance _ and mottled shades of  _ pain _ that Jaskier knew came from relying on his senses so much. The man seemed to not care at all about the costs of constantly scanning the world around him for any signs of threats--that or he was so used to the low grade pain that he didn’t notice it anymore.

Jaskier would just need to teach him that he deserved more than muted misery.

A few minutes after spotting the tallest buildings of the town, they led their horses through the simple wooden archway that marked the beginning of the village proper. Wary eyes cut over them, eyeing the two swords strapped to Geralt’s back and the obvious strength in each of his movements. Jaskier barely resisted the urge to sigh--it was a wonder that the Witcher had managed to go so long without being identified as a sentinel.

In comparison, the guide was nearly invisible beside him. He felt the prickle of a few curious looks, but most of them were more concerned with the obvious threat. That would have to change if they were going to make any money here. He was eager to prove that he would be a good partner and bondmate to his sentinel.

With that in mind, he pulled his lute from his new gelding’s saddle and ran his fingers over the familiar strings. Buttercup nudged him with a velvety nose, hoping for a scratch and teasing a smile out of him. The hunter’s horse seemed to relish the attention given by the guide and the experienced hand of Geralt. He was even slowly winning Roach over with his placid dedication to snuggling with her each night.

“Not now, sweetheart,” he crooned with another stroke of his lute. “Daddy’s got to make us some money.”

Roach made an offended noise behind him at the lack of self respect from the other horse. He was almost certain she’d learned it from Geralt.

The Witcher looked around the town like he was trying to identify any threats. Worry bled through their bond and Jaskier could practically  _ see _ his indecision. Was it worse to leave the guide alone with strangers or be left surrounded by the overload that came with a crowd?

Jaskier decided to make the choice for him. “Why don’t you see if they have any beasties waiting for you to murder them?” he said gently, exuding as much calm in his voice as he could. “I’ll be fine here. Maybe I’ll make enough for us to get something better for supper.”

Geralt’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile that matched the flicker of amusement against his shields that made Jaskier want to crow in victory. 

“I thought you liked my cooking.”

“Darling, if you think cold cheese and hard bread is cooking, I’m about to blow your mind.”

To avoid doing something rash--like kiss the hint of a smile lurking at the corner of Geralt’s lips--Jaskier gave him another grin and started toward the tavern at the end of the lane. Before he could make it more than a step, the sentinel’s hand was wrapping around his bicep and tugging him to a stop.

When he looked back, Geralt was frowning again. “You’ll stay in the tavern, right?” he asked quietly. “And don’t get into any trouble.”

_ Fearaffectionworrysuspicionprotectprotectprotect _

Jaskier told himself not to look too much into the emotions that continued to bleed through their connection. It was instinct, he told himself. Instinct and the effects of the hunters attacks leaving an invisible mark on each of them.

He took a breath and made sure none of his own fledgling feelings projected through his shields or the expression on his face. “I’ll try to keep to myself,” he murmured and dared to reach out and cover Geralt’s hand with his own, “Make sure you come back to me in one piece, sentinel.”

A nod and then Geralt was gone, Roach trailing behind him like a large, irritable dog.

Jaskier took a breath, checked his shields, and pretended his heart wasn’t racing as he walked away to find a willing audience.

  
  
  


Later that night, Jaskier nearly dropped his lute when he felt a muffled bolt of pain shoot through their bond. 

His fingers continued to pluck the notes of a jaunty dancing tune through sheer habit alone. He closed his eyes and focused on the link that connected himself to the sentinel, ignoring the chatter and laughter of the people around him. Already, he could feel the strain of attempting to sort out what was happening to Geralt, but he ignored the pain with the ease of old habit.

Within a few moments, he’d sorted through the irritation, pain, and exhaustion that the other man was feeling and released a low sound of relief. There was none of the panic or terror that had colored their ambush by hunters. He had to assume that this was nothing more than a result of the hunt Geralt must have taken up while Jaskier was playing.

Still, the guide didn’t relax until the frustration gave way to a subtle wave of satisfaction and triumph that told him the Witcher had succeeded in killing whatever he’d been sent after. By the time he felt Geralt coming closer, Jaskier’s own limbs were trembling with the effort of maintaining his shields and he could feel sweat dripping down his back.

He made his final bow and collected a relatively decent amount of coin from the crowd. They’d been lucky that a fair had been held that day in the market square and many people were still feeling generous enough to spread the wealth to reward a cheerful end of the night. The innkeeper took in his clammy face and the crowd of drunken people behind him and offered to send up a bath free of charge. His relief must have been apparent because she added a few extra pieces of bread and sent him up to his room after agreeing to tell the Witcher where he’d gone. 

Mentally, he maintained the connection to Geralt as he stumbled up the stairs and pulled off his sweat soaked clothes. Once he was down to his smalls, he hurriedly wiped himself down with the basin of tepid water on top of the washstand before opening the door to let two burly stable boys to dunk a few buckets of steaming water into the tin bathtub in the corner. He passed them both a few extra coins and told them to take good care of Buttercup and Roach once she returned. He’d just set the plates of food out when he heard the sound of booted footsteps outside and let the tremor of relief bleed down the bond.

Geralt’s features were nearly indistinguishable beneath a layer of mud and gore. His pale hair was an awful shade of grey and the paleness of his skin seemed enhanced against the black lines surrounding his eyes.

Jaskier didn’t need to be a guide to sense the sentinel was close to zoning again.

He reached out for the warrior, sending a wave of soothing calm and peace down their bond even as he herded him over to the bath. For once in his life, Jaskier was careful to remain quiet--not wanting to exacerbate the strain on the other man’s sensitive ears. 

Geralt remained silent and malleable as the guide carefully untied each piece of armor and set them aside to be cleaned later. With each layer, he confirmed that most of the blood splattered across the other man belonged to the monster he’d slain, not the Witcher. He ran his fingers over warm skin and continued to pull pain away from his sentinel while flooding him with enough  _ peace _ and  _ calm _ that golden eyes went heavy lidded almost instantly. 

“There you go, sentinel,” he crooned softly, “Let me take care of you.”

He settled him into the bath and felt an immediate bolt of relief from the Witcher as the man sank deeper. Knowing how sensitive Geralt’s nose probably was, Jaskier only dropped a small amount of lavender and natural scents into the water. It was a wonder how the man managed to get through any hunt if even Jaskier wanted to curl his lips at the overwhelming smell of blood and muck.

There was a small, deep gouge high of Geralt’s chest that almost perfectly outlined where a claw must have slipped past his armor. The thought of how close it must have come to the Witcher’s throat made Jaskier’s mouth go dry. He didn’t like the idea of losing his sentinel right after getting him.

When he began to leave Geralt’s side to hunt down some bandaging, he was stopped once more by the Witcher’s hand on his arm.

“Don’t,” the warrior rasped, “It’ll heal.”

The words sounded jagged as glass in his throat and Jaskier redoubled his efforts to pull more pain away from him.

He hesitated for another moment before nodding and sinking to his knees beside the tub. Grabbing the empty pitcher, he began to rinse the dirt from the sentinel’s hair, enjoying the way the man relaxed bonelessly against the lip of the tub. The long line of his throat vibrated into a purr when Jaskier began to carefully lather soap into his hair. When the hair was once again pale as moonlight, he lingered there, combing out the last knots and enjoying the feedback of the Witcher’s pleasure with each pass.

“I don’t like you getting hurt,” Jaskier admitted to the quiet room.

Geralt’s eyelashes fluttered as honeyed eyes blinked up at him. For a long moment, they stared at each other, hovering on the edge of something that felt too monumental to name.

“Better me than you, guide.”

* * *

They fell into a rhythm of sorts as they continued to travel without any sign of hunters taking notice.

Every week or so, they would make their way into a village. Geralt and Roach would disappear in pursuit of whatever nuisance creature was in the area. Jaskier and Buttercup would meander over to the nearest inn or busk at the market if the town was large enough. By nightfall, they meet again to eat a plate of food not cooked by either of them and--hopefully--enjoy a hot bath and warm bed for the night.

The bond between also seemed to be growing with each passing day.

The sentinel was hardly a budding conversationalist, but he seemed willing to listen to the bits of song and random chatter from Jaskier as they walked under the trees. Occasionally, he would even offer up quick stories and anecdotes of his years of hunting. When Jaskier began to feel the subtle notes of annoyance that signaled he’d begun to overwhelm the quieter man, he was quick to redirect his attention to scrawling lyrics in his notebook. He’d even managed to figure out a way to ride and write once he realized that Buttercup was more than willing to amble along after Roach.

Even better was the growing understanding that the connection between the Witcher and himself had the potential to become something  _ more _ . Geralt was beautiful, obviously, and Jaskier had spent more than a few absent moments thinking about the lean lines of muscle that rippled beneath his skin, but it was more than a physical draw for him. The sentinel was kind and surprisingly affected by the narrowed eyes and harsh words of the people around him. It broke Jaskier’s heart each time the Witcher seemed surprised by kind gestures and gentle touches from the guide.

It made him want to  _ prove _ he was worth trusting. Worth loving.

That the bond between them hadn’t been just fate.

* * *

It was easy to forget the reality of the world when he was safe within Geralt’s orbit.

A wave of malevolent intent and vicious anticipation felt like a blow amidst the usual excitement and happiness of a crowd. Immediately, Jaskier went on alert, trying to sort through the people mingling around him. It forced him to lower his shields and left him open to the visceral pain of the world around him.

There was a widower, deep in his cups and longing for a partner that wouldn’t come.

A couple, giggling with a heady mixture of lust and lightheadedness.

The group of farmers in the corner were chatting about the year’s crops and worrying about whether they would be able to pay off their debts.

Far away, Geralt was all cool focus and deadly intent. Jaskier could imagine the way he must be stalking soundlessly through the grass, searching for any sign of the vampire who’d taken three villagers in the last month.

Taking another deep breath, the guide forced himself to continue picking through each person in the room for the source of that awful emotion and the rising violence that felt like a nail sinking into his skull. He was no longer able to focus on the lute in his hands and set it aside with trembling hands. 

The weight of other villager’s focuses turning toward him made him shudder, the strain on his abilities growing. It was a delicate line to walk between not being able to use his empathetic skills to find what he was looking for and to avoid projecting his own riotous pain and worry into the air around him. Even worse, if he distracted Geralt in the midst of his hunt, he could cost the Witcher his life.

Jaskier was walking toward the bar when he felt--

_ Lust, cruel and eager at the sight of its target. _

_ Rising anticipation as he moved closer, ready to reach out. To grab. To  _ **_break_ ** _. _

The guide made a rough sound of pain and ran toward the door on trembling legs. He knew he had lost his hold on the shield keeping Geralt from sensing the panic choking him. A bolt of concern shot through their bond, but Jaskier couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about anything but the figure turning the corner ahead of him, hot on the heels of a young girl heading home for the night.

Each step felt like it took all of his strength and he could feel his lungs rasping with each breath, but he couldn’t afford to stop. He latched onto the sick emotions of the human predator ahead of him and ignored the throb of pain as he used his abilities like a locator spell.

The man continued toward the outskirts of town and Jaskier couldn’t help but think that it was the perfect place to make his move. Most of the adults in the area were happily drinking back in the bar which meant it was the perfect night for another kind of monster to hunt. The girl seemed oblivious to the two strangers following her, emotion still happy and pleasantly tired after a long day.

In contrast, Jaskier felt like he was losing himself in wave after wave of the horrific thoughts the man--the  _ rapist _ was projecting. He slid deeper into the man’s mind, trying to pull the worst of the impulses away from a distance. His vision blurred, blending into greys and the darker greens of the grass beneath him. 

The excitement of the man peaked as he closed the distance between himself and his victim and Jaskier felt his stomach roil when a bolt of terror rose to clash with the sick anticipation. A scream smothered the sound of ripping fabric and the dull thud of a fist against flesh. The girl cried out, her pain mingling with the mounting panic in the air.

Biting back a sob of his own, Jaskier barreled forward with mindless determination. 

He had to stop him.  _ He had to stop him. _

The guide caught the man with more luck than skill and took him to ground. They rolled in a tumble of limbs into the ditch alongside the road. The girl gasped and crawled away on hands and knees, taking advantage of the unexpected distraction. Jaskier had a moment to be grateful before the force of a blow sent his face snapping to the side.

The other man grasped blindly for Jaskier’s neck, his fury seeping through the guide’s shields until they finally broke like shards of glass.

Without the help of his shields, Jaskier felt himself swept away by his own abilities and the other man’s emotions. There was no differentiating between the pain in his fist and the pain in his jaw. Not in the adrenaline-fueled focus that came with the growing understanding that he was fighting for his own life now. Fingers curved into claws, raking bloody grooves along pale skin and redoubling the muffled pain lurking beneath the need to stay alive.  _ Stay alive.  _

A roar cut through the night as a fist slammed into soft flesh again and again and again and again and--

“ _ Jaskier _ !”

Hands reached out and pulled him back bodily, pinning his arms to his sides when he continued to fight to return to the tangled limbs a few feet away. He sobbed, bucking against the hold and the voice that continued to call a name that no longer felt like it belonged to him.

He had to stop him. He had to keep him away from the girl.

“Jaskier!” A familiar voice said again and he shuddered when he felt a claustrophobic wave of worry and concern go through his shields, “You have to calm down. Calm  _ down _ , guide.”

He wanted to listen, to fall into the comfort a part of him associated with that voice, but all he could think about was the emptiness where a man once was and the blood crusting his fingertips.

“Breathe with me, Jask. You’re okay.” He felt himself rocking back and forth, back firmly pressed against warm flesh. “I’ve got you.”

_ Geralt _ .

The name acted like a lodestone and he began the arduous task of trying to rebuild his shields, piece by piece. It felt like it took an eternity to find each fractured part of himself and pushing it back into place. His head felt like it was full of broken glass, shifting and cutting deep with each sluggish thought. 

He licked his lips, clinging to the arms wrapped around his chest. “The...the girl…”

“She’s fine. Scared, but she’s okay.” Geralt pressed his forehead against the back of Jaskier’s neck and took a breath deep enough to shift the guide slightly. “I passed her on my way to find you.”

Jaskier nodded, closing his eyes and going limp in the Witcher’s hold. Somehow he knew Geralt wouldn’t let him fall.

“What happened?” he asked after a long silence broken only by the guide’s ragged breathing.

His lips twisted into a smile without humor. “Thought I’d give being heroic a try.”

The arms around him tightened slightly, Geralt’s thumb sweeping a soothing line across his shoulder. Jaskier tried not to whimper.

“Why don’t you leave the fighting up to me from now on?”

He closed his eyes and pretended he couldn’t feel the blood coating his hands. 

“No promises.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is bad at pretending not to care about anybody.
> 
> Also, would it help if I gave a basic overview of sentinels and guide AUs in the notes? This trope has been around longer than me, but I know there aren't a lot of stories that use it in this fandom. I've also added my own spin on it as well. Let me know!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the appearance of another ship :)
> 
> I've added a guide to guides (get it?) and sentinels at the beginning of the story if you find yourself needing a primer for this trope. Thanks for all your continued support!

A month passed before Jaskier met another Witcher.

Geralt was gone on another hunt--a doppler known in the region for spooking young drunks on their way home--and the bard had elected to spend the day lounging around in a patch of sunlight in a field outside of the town. He was far enough away that the emotions and riotous energy of the crowds wouldn’t bother him. It was as much of a break as he could manage while they were still wary of attracting any hunter scouts that might stumble upon him.

Against his back, Buttercup was snoozing on his side and contentedly providing a backrest for Jaskier while he tried to figure out the proper chord progression for his latest song.

“What do you think, beautiful? Is ‘bitch’ too trite of a rhyme for ‘witch’?”

Across the pasture, Roach gave a grumpy little snort, flicking her tail in his direction.

He scowled and scratched out a line in his journal. “You’re right, of course. We can do better.”

If he was lucky, he’d be able to charm the story out of Geralt when he got back. The Witcher was not much of a story teller, but he was becoming a sucker for Jaskier’s pleading expression. That, and the sweet buns that he’d carefully hidden away from his trip to the market nearby.

They’d had a spree of good luck lately with contracts and friendly crowds so Jaskier was happy to take the opportunity to take a break from crowds and work on his growing collection of songs. He was considering tackling the awful reputation of Witchers as his next focus instead of creating another pithy romantic ballad. Geralt would prefer to avoid any sort of attention for himself, but the guide couldn’t stand watching other people insult and degrade his sentinel. 

It was either write a song or start a fistfight. He had a feeling which Geralt would prefer.

Deep in his chest, the link with his sentinel remained a newly familiar anchor. It steadied him in a way he hadn’t anticipated from the vague mentions of trauma bonds and soul bonds in books. There, the trauma bond was no more than a last ditch effort to prevent madness. A figurative last gasp of a dying man.

Somehow, he couldn’t imagine what was growing between the two of them as some tenuous link. He wasn’t sure if it was the small flicker of relief and genuine happiness that he felt each time Geralt looked at him or the way he himself was beginning to rely on the steady presence of the sentinel when the mood of the crowd threatened to drag him under. They were good for each other--made better the longer they were together. Now, he just wanted to convince Geralt to stay.

It didn’t take much effort to notice the edgy way the Witcher felt about guides and their abilities. Even after weeks of traveling together, he still occasionally became irritable and hostile when he felt like Jaskier might be using his abilities to affect the warrior’s mood. The only time he ever really relaxed was when he came back after a hunt and melted into the kind of calm only a guide could produce. It kept him from being forced to ride out the worst of the aftereffects of his potions while surrounded by more humans.

There were other ways he’d proven himself to be a good traveling companion to the Witcher. It was the way Geralt no longer seemed overwhelmed by the noise and smells of a crowd or how Jaskier had mastered the art of soothing even the most angry townsperson so they’d be more willing to pay the price they agreed on or allow them to pay less than the premium for a room. The Witcher was suffering through fewer headaches and Jaskier had noticed he was far more likely to smile and tease him than their first days together.

He would be able to convince Geralt to trust him fully soon enough. The sentinel was already giving in to the pull of the attraction between them. He just needed to convince him that it was more than their designations that made them perfect for one another. They were--

Something wild brushed against his shields.

Jaskier sat up, setting aside his quill to warily scan the area for some sign of whatever was sending his senses into alertness. He eased himself upright, reaching out towards Geralt instinctively to confirm that it wasn’t Geralt who was walking towards him. When he was met with only the faint frustration and focus that he recognized as the familiar markers of the Witcher hunting.

Roach looked from eating, ears pricked in interest as her nostrils flared to take in the scent of a stranger. She froze, watchful even with a piece of grass sticking out of her mouth. He moved his hand over to his pack nearby, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his knife a moment before Roach released a shrill whinny of...delight?

The mare pranced over to the broad shouldered man stepping through the trees and lipped at the hem of his black shirt, eyes bright with excitement. Jaskier gaped at her, eyes darting back and forth between the stranger and the normally stoic animal.

“What are you doing with a Witcher’s horse?” a raspy voice growled at him.

Roach shifted just enough to allow Jaskier to get his first good look at the haphazard looking Witcher in front of him.

It was obvious that the stranger couldn’t be anything but another Witcher even if he looked wilder and rougher looking than Geralt ever managed aside from immediately after a hunt. Close cropped red hair was pock marked with scars, one of which bisected an eyebrow that was furrowed as he took in the guide with whiskey colored eyes. His emotions felt like the heat from an oven, spiraling back and forth between muffled rage and a grief so strong that Jaskier made a rough sound in response. Above all was disappointment and a growing sense of regret.

Instinctively, he reached toward the sentinel with a hand that shook with the echoes of the warrior’s own emotions. It felt like he was being flayed alive, like if he looked down he would find his own skin peeling away. 

“You...you’re…” he tried, but his mind felt hazy with the Witcher’s emotions.

The sentinel’s lip curled into a snarl and he stepped around Roach so he could be free to attack if he deemed Jaskier a threat. He could feel the anticipation of violence like the memory of violence.

“What are you doing with Geralt’s horse, guide?” 

This time Jaskier was forced to press his own palms against his head in an attempt to keep himself from crumpling entirely. The sentinel was the most powerful he’d ever come in contact with aside from Geralt. Adding in the level of emotional chaos made Jaskier’s shields seem inadequate.

“Please,” he managed weakly, “I--”

“ _ Lambert _ !”

Both of them looked up at the sound of Geralt’s voice. The Witcher moved toward them with thinly disguised concern--for Jaskier or the other Witcher, he wasn’t sure. Golden eyes looked over Jaskier hurriedly before refocusing on Lambert with a frown. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked then looked around like he was expecting someone else to appear. “Where’s Aiden?”

In two words, Lambert managed to convey a depth of grief and longing that made Jaskier dizzy. 

“He’s gone.”

* * *

“He was taken,” Lambert managed after Geralt practically herded them over to their makeshift campground. Jaskier couldn’t help but notice that the sentinel kept himself between Lambert and the guide--though he didn’t know who he was trying to protect. “ _ They took him, Geralt _ .”

That awful wellspring of grief rose in the air once more until Jaskier felt like he would gag at the sensation. Whatever had happened to Aiden was enough to send his sentinel to the very brink of insanity. There was only soul deep strength and dogged dedication to recovering the lost piece of his soul.

“Your guide?” Jaskier asked gently when the sentinel seemed to become overwhelmed by the same emotions that had the bard trembling.

When Lambert seemed unable to respond, Geralt spoke up. “Aiden has been Lambert’s guide for eleven years.”

The other sentinel made a rough noise. “We were about to celebrate our anniversary, can you believe it?” he asked without waiting for their response. “I managed to find a way to keep him from finding the knife I bought for him and thought I was  _ so _ fucking clever.”

“How long ago?” 

Whoever Aiden had been, it was obvious that he was as much a part of Geralt’s family as any other Wolf.

“Six months.” The other sentinel’s hands clenched into fists against his thighs, muscles straining with restrained power. “He was on a hunt near Novigrad. He...wanted to stretch his legs, he said.”

“You--you’re sure it was hunters?”

_ And not the beast he was hunting _ ? Geralt didn’t ask and Jaskier was grateful for the discretion. He felt like he was barely holding on to his sanity as it was.

Lambert nodded stiffly. “We went looking for him--me and Eskel. They told us he’d come back and collected the reward for killing a group of rotfiends harassing the village. He stayed at the inn for the rest of the night, but that was the last anyone saw of him.” A muscle fluttered in his jaw as he chewed on the next words, “Until the stableboy confessed that a group of hunters had followed him out of town.”

“He might have escaped them. Aiden was always good at being underestimated.”

A tiny hint of a fond smile appeared like a ghost on Lambert’s lips--there and gone to leave Jaskier wondering if he’d seen it all. “I found their bodies rotting on the side of the road a few miles from town.”

“Has anyone heard of a new guide on the market?”

Lambert shook his head and Jaskier didn’t need his abilities to know what the man was thinking. Aiden might not have survived the encounter or the ‘training’ that followed.

All thoughts of allowing Geralt to handle the grief of his brother disappeared when he watched the sentinel’s head slump forward, shoulders hunched in singular misery. The guide moved on instinct, avoiding Geralt’s delayed gesture to try to keep him from getting closer to the grieving, unstable sentinel.

He felt Lambert tense at the unexpected touch when he wrapped his arms around the scarred warrior. Burrowing through the layers of  _ griefpainheartache _ , Jaskier projected his own calm and peace like a warm blanket, wrapping around the sentinel like a figurative blanket. He forced himself to absorb the negative emotions like lancing a poison, breathing past the headache that bloomed with the action. 

“You’re okay, sentinel,” he murmured, “You’ll find him again.”

It was a foolish promise, but he couldn’t help the urge to somehow make this right.

Geralt remained frozen with his hands outstretched like he was prepared to leap forward if Lambert looked like he might attack the guide. Jaskier could feel the worry for the two of them blooming like a miasma of anticipation.

Instead, sword-calloused fingers slowly came up to tangle in the sleeve of his shirt, hard enough to bruise if it had been his skin. He heard the Witcher take a shaky breath, forehead pressing against Jaskier’s collar bone like he needed it to anchor him in the present. Jaskier slowly stroked his hand over the curve of the warrior’s back in a soothing gesture, repeating it when Lambert didn’t protest.

He wasn’t sure how long they remained like that before Lambert’s roiling emotions sank to a manageable level. It felt like the air around them became lighter with each steadying breath. Jaskier found himself curling around the other Witcher like a shield, trying to offer as much protection from the haze of memories and regrets that continued to threaten to break him. Slowly, the guide settled onto the ground next to him, close enough to anchor if Lambert needed him.

“You’re so strong for managing this long without a guide,” Jaskier said with the sensation of impending collapse still fresh in his mind. “Especially your bondmate.”

“Because he isn’t your only bondmate, is he?” Geralt interrupted, frowning a little. “You have another guide.”

Lambert looked slightly uncomfortable with the situation, sliding against Jaskier’s shields like the feeling of hair being brushed the wrong way. “I was going to talk to you this winter, but with everything that happened…” he trailed off before meeting Geralt’s eyes. Jaskier could sense his apprehension and refusal to feel ashamed rippling behind his expression. “It’s Eskel.”

Confused, Jaskier looked back in time to watch a complicated series of emotions dart across Geralt’s face.

“Eskel,” he repeated faintly.

When the silence began to build like the apprehension beating against his shields, Jaskier asked, “Is Eskel another one of the Witchers?”

Geralt grunted.

The other Witcher seemed a little more eager to discuss the other part of his soulbond instead of continuing to focus on Aiden’s disappearance. “He’s the only guide left in the Wolf School.”

“What...what happened to the others?”

“We were attacked,” Geralt answered. “A long time ago.”

_ Hunters _ , Jaskier thought to himself,  _ had much to answer for. _ The hatred for Witchers was an ancient prejudice among other humans uneasy by the powers and abilities that their mutations gave them. Adding in the amount of fear and hatred directed toward guides and sentinels, it didn’t take much to understand why Witchers would be targeted. 

“Are all Witchers sentinels or guides?” Jaskier couldn’t help his curiosity when Geralt was so rarely willing to share details about his life.

“No. Anyone can attempt to complete the training to become a Witcher--or, at least, before the Schools were all fucking torched.” The guide imagined that he could see the flames of the burning Witcher keeps reflected in Lambert’s eyes or feel their remembered pain in the bitter twist of his mouth. “Sentinels and guides are just more likely to survive the trials.”

The thought of how much pain lurked behind such a simple explanation made Jaskier reach out to wrap his fingers loosely around Geralt’s wrist like he could pull that from him too.

Geralt carefully avoided his eyes when he redirected the conversation back to the other Wolf Witcher. “How long have you and Eskel been bonded?”

“Eskel, Aiden, and I bonded last winter.” The other sentinel met Geralt’s gaze without hesitation. “Eskel wanted to talk to you first, but you stayed with the mage instead of coming back home.”

Three sided bonds between sentinels and guides were increasingly rare now. There were so few of them left that the odds of finding three people compatible and interested in an area was next to impossible. That all of them were Witchers made this the stuff of legends.

“Why would he…” Jaskier’s voice trailed off mid-question as understanding hit him like a bucket of cold water. 

_ Oh _ .

Eskel was a guide. The only way Geralt had been able to function without a permanent bondmate would be if he had another guide to call on to bring him out of the overstimulation that potions were able to resolve. This must have been the warrior who’d formed a temporary connection with each winter when the Witchers went back to their home to rest for the season. Had it been trust or love that kept Geralt coming back to Eskel each year?

Slowly, Jaskier let his hold on Geralt’s arm fall away while he carefully ensured his shields wouldn’t give away what he was feeling to the sentinel. As he did, he let himself piece together the clues that he’d overlooked because he hadn’t wanted to think about what they could mean at the time.

Geralt’s reaction to the trauma bond.

His constant suspicion of any use of Jaskier’s abilities to affect him.

The way he’d only begrudgingly agreed to travel together while they were under threat of hunters. 

_ How much of that had just been a strategy to keep himself from getting pulled into a zone at an unexpected time? _

Jaskier told himself that this had always been a possibility. He’d known from the beginning that Geralt hadn’t wanted to be trapped by the limits of their bond. The bard had been a stranger to him and Witchers had been taught early not to trust humans.

“I’m happy for you,” Geralt rasped, “All of you.”

Jaskier ignored the pathetic throb of his hopeful heart with the ease of long practice.

“We wanted you to be there too, Wolf.”

Geralt hummed and Jaskier watched him shift like he was contemplating reaching out, but stopped mid-motion. “Where is Eskel now?”

“He was going to see if any of the guide runners had heard anything useful,” Lambert said and then looked over at Jaskier with the smallest amount of curiosity. “I felt a guide in the area and I thought…”

None of them had to ask what he thought. The devastation when he caught sight of Jaskier in the clearing alone had been information enough.

“How long have you been bonded?” Lambert asked abruptly, steering away from the pain in that line of thought.

“We aren’t,” Jaskier answered before Geralt could and carefully avoided looking at the sentinel. “Just a trauma bond.”

Geralt hesitated for a moment before grunting an assent. “Yeah, just a trauma bond.”

* * *

Late into the night, Jaskier found himself staring up at the glittering skies above him, his mind drifting restlessly.

He couldn’t seem to chase away the jealousy within him after the information revealed that day. Lambert’s connection with his guides felt like a particularly sharp knife in the wake of the new understanding of just how little Geralt wanted to do with him. It made his hope for an eventual permanent bond seem childish in comparison.    
  


_ It’s not as though the sentinel ever pretended otherwise,  _ a nasty voice whispered in his mind.  _ You were just allies. Acquaintances.  _ Whatever term that would indicate how easily their connection could be abandoned or broken. He needed to prepare himself for that day and accept that it would happen now rather than when he was standing with the broken pieces in his chest.

Lambert was already gone. He’d disappeared only a few hours after Geralt had gone to sleep with enough longing in him that Jaskier knew he was going to search out Eskel. It was obvious that he’d been struggling to be in the same space as another guide, even if Jaskier had helped calm him down earlier. Jaskier had been content to allow him his silent exit, unable to offer anything more than the barest level of understanding.

After all, they were both unable to reach what they were searching for. He hoped that Lambert’s situation was only temporary.

“I never wanted a guide.” Geralt’s voice cut through the silence of the night and made Jaskier tense in surprise. He tilted his head and could faintly make out the pale spray of Geralt’s eyelashes against his cheeks. “They’re dangerous.”

Jaskier made a derisive sound.

“You are,” the Witcher repeated. “I don’t have another guide to bring me back from the brink.”

_ If something happened to you. _

_ If you were taken. _

_ If you died in any of the countless ways that came with the fragility of humanity. _

For a long moment, they remained silent as Jaskier tried to process how he could respond to all the unspoken words between them.

“I’m not Aiden,” he finally said as firmly as he could. “And I don’t want to be hurt for something that hasn’t even happened.”

“The hunters will be back.”

Jaskier swallowed and told himself to be brave. “We could face them together.”

_ Choose me,  _ he doesn’t whisper.  _ Stay with me. We would be good for eachother. _

Geralt didn’t answer and Jaskier fell asleep to the faint sensation of the sentinel’s churning emotions at the edge of his consciousness.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Aiden and Jaskier.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a shocking amount of fluff, for me. Be warned.

Things are...odd after the run in with Lambert.

Geralt remained his usual quiet self while Jaskier cycled between refusing to acknowledge the awkwardness between them and his own morose thoughts. He’d known from the start that his odds of being able to maintain his relationship with the sentinel was a long shot. Being faced with the reality of all the reasons Geralt had to push him away left him wondering if it mattered that every day spent with him felt like their bond was growing stronger. 

He didn’t want to know what would happen if it was broken.

It took a few days before they were able to fall back into their usual routine. Geralt was still tense and watchful, but he no longer directed that energy towards Jaskier. The guide, for his part, tried to rip away the sentinel’s walls as quickly as he could build them.

Which was probably why he was taking his life in his hands now.

“Alright, Roach,” Jaskier said in his most authoritative voice. “You’re gonna let me saddle you today.”

“I can do it.”

He didn’t bother to look over at where he knew the sentinel was watching his antics, feeling the low hum of fondness that told him Geralt thought Jaskier’s dedication to winning over Roach was cute. “If something happens to you, I need to be able to wrangle her into submission.”   
  


“Hopefully I’ll be unconscious when this happens.”

“Quiet, you.”

Roach’s nostrils flared and she blew a warning puff of air at him as he stepped forward with his hands outstretched. Aside from their first escape from Posada, the mare had made it obvious that she was only one excuse away from a quick nip whenever Jaskier got too close. He couldn’t pretend like he was a part of Geralt’s small family if he couldn’t win her over.

In one hand, he held the bridle Roach preferred and, in the other, he had a few sugar cubes he’d charmed from a friendly baker.

“Come on, Roachy. We can be friends.”

The mare’s neck arched and her dark eyes tracked his movements warily, but didn’t turn and run. He took that as a good sign.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he crooned. “All you need to do is work with me here.”

“I thought you were trying to saddle her, not seduce her.”

Jaskier shot Gerealt a look before going still at the first touch of a velvety nose against his outstretched palm. He kept his breathing steady as she nibbled on his offering, wishing his talents could extend to animals as well as humans. 

Hands shaking with barely restrained excitement, he reached out to gently slide the bridle over her head while she was still buddy sniffing his pockets for more treats. A huge grin split his face and he turned back to where Geralt was still sitting and watching him. 

“She likes me!” he crowed. “She really--”

His exclamation of delight was cut off as Roach abruptly dropped her head and shoved it against his middle. The sudden blow made him topple over, tripping over the same log he’d eaten his breakfast that morning, and into a mud puddle.

His squawk of surprise quickly turned into inventive cursing as he took in the state of his clothes--the first set of decent performance clothes he’d saved up for after losing everything in Posada. He glared up at Roach who looked terribly smug a few feet away. 

“I”m going to turn you into glue, you vicious little…”

The rant died off mid-word as Jaskier took in the sight of the sentinel a few yards away and his mind came to a screeching halt.

Geralt’s shoulders shook with wave after wave of giggles that slowly became a rusty laugh. He shook his head, looking over at Jaskier, before collapsing once more. 

Jaskier found himself staring awestruck at the sight and sound of Geralt’s open amusement, seconded by the sensation of delight through the bond. It felt like tiny bubbles against his skin, like sunlight warming frozen skin. It stole the breath in his lungs and replaced it with something that felt too big to be contained beneath his fragile skin.

He could feel himself projecting a frankly embarrassing amount of his own arousal into the air along with deeper, more complicated emotions that he wasn’t confident enough name. It was only when the sentinel sombered enough to look at him with one eyebrow raised that Jaskier managed to slam his shields back into place while he tried to ignore the hot flush on his face.

The guide skulked away to the safety of Buttercup’s less judgemental company--but not before he saw the ghost of a smirk on Geralt’s face.

* * *

The nights became the only time they gave into the nameless pull between them.

At first, Jaskier had tried to keep his distance as a courtesy to the warrior who already felt like the guide had taken advantage of his designation with their bond. He’d put his bed roll a few respectful feet away and tried not to think about the darkness closing in around them. It didn’t make it any easier to sleep when it felt like all he could focus on was the empty hole in his chest that only grew when Geralt was out of reach. After his bloody fight, Jaskier’s anxiety only got worse, amplified by Geralt’s growing concern. 

It took three days without sleep before the sentinel spoke up.

“You look tired.” The words were gruff, but Jaskier could feel the anxiety prickling beneath each word.

“I…” he floundered a little, unsure he should say. “I’ve just been having trouble sleeping.”

“Why?”

Jaskier shrugged, looking away. 

“Would it...Would it help if you slept closer to me?” 

The guide’s head snapped up with surprise at the unexpected offer. It was one thing to share space when it was cheaper and safer to stay close when we were in town. It was another thing entirely to break the subtle boundary they maintained when they were on the road.

“Are you sure?” he murmured. One last escape route.

Instead of answering, Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s bedroll and pulled it over to his. He laid it out so it was closest to the fire and allowed his own to act as a subtle shield to the outside world. The Witcher flopped onto his roll with a tired huff and closed his eyes--were it not for the sharp awareness that still echoed through their bond.

Warily, Jaskier padded closer, waiting for the sour notes of rejection from the sentinel. He gently lowered himself onto the bedroll, shivering a little at the cold ground and the autumn chill in the air. It wouldn’t be long before they would be forced to contemplate what they could do to survive the winter. It wasn’t as though they could settle into some noblewoman’s manor like Jaskier had been doing for the last few years on his own. 

He let out a breath, trying not to think about the way it felt like they were always counting down towards some inevitable doom.

A warm arm slid over his waist and tugged him back against a broad chest. He went stiff with surprise, breath releasing in a juddering burst.

“Relax, guide,” Geralt muttered. “Just go to sleep.”

Pressed between the warmth of the fire and the sentinel at his back, Jaskier let his eyes drift close and did just that.

* * *

“ _ Toss a coin to your Witcher,”  _ Jaskier crooned, reveling in the crowd’s focus around him. They were pleasantly tipsy and he felt the echoes of their happiness like a strong whiskey.

At the bar, Geralt was finishing up a game of gwent with one of the grizzled old farmers that was probably still decades younger than the Witcher. The sensation of the sentinel’s satisfaction at a successful game made Jaskier smile a little as he continued to play to his audience. Geralt scowled at the table when he recognized the tune and the guide directed an impish smile his way. 

The sentinel was not a fan of Jaskier’s dedication to changing the public’s opinions about Witchers. He saw it as a lost cause and another way to attract the attention of unwanted people. It was one of the few things the two of them had argued over consistently over the last few weeks.

_ “I’m tired of watching people treat you like you’re no better than the monsters you hunt!” _

_ “That’s not going to change just because of a few songs. You won’t be able to force them to like us.” _

_ “Watch me!” _

Instead of hiding his abilities beneath his shields, Jaskier let himself soak in the sensations around him, feeding into the heady mixture of excitement, lust, and hazy happiness. He fed into the rush and listened to the crowd cheer and laugh in equal measure. It only took a few more minutes before they were singing along with him and screaming for an encore. 

He grinned and let his fingers dance over the lute in a freestyle bridge before starting the song again. It was working. Already he could see two rowdy members of the crowd heading over to where Geralt was sulking bearing drinks and cheerful smiles. Jaskier looked down to disguise his triumphant grin. This song going to--

Like a poorly tuned string, a note of  _ wrong _ frizzled through the room on the heels of his next thought. 

Jaskier’s gasp was covered by the noise of the singing crowd and he let them shout their way through the chorus as he tried to sort out the source of that awful  _ righteousnessfearangerjealousy _ . He felt his stomach lurch with nausea at the building sensation--too strong to belong to one person. 

He summoned a smile for the crowd that didn’t manage to reach his eyes. “My throat is killing me, dear hearts. Send me your prettiest barmaid.”

The crowd cheered again, forgetting him within a few moments in the wake of their own revelry. Jaskier nodded and accepted their drunken compliments, trying to push his way through to where Geralt still waited.

“We need to go,” he said as soon as he was close enough to be heard. 

The Witcher looked up and frowned, eyes instantly scanning for threats. He stood and grabbed his cards and downed his drink. “What’s wrong?”

“Hunters.”

They hurried out of the side door before anyone noticed they were gone, heading toward the stables. Buttercup and Roach looked up at the sound of their footsteps, watching as they began to assemble their tack with practiced movements. The mare looked aggrieved at the loss of her warm stall, but came out with a few soft words from the Witcher. Buttercup lipped over Jaskier’s tunic with hopeful eyes until his good natured patience earned him a few scratches and the carrot Jaskier had pocketed from his meal.

The two men hurried from the stables, muffling the sound of the horse’s hooves by tying a few scraps of old feed bags over them. Inside, the tavern was still full of laughter and chatter and Jaskier sent a few more waves of empathetically manufactured happiness to keep them from noticing their bard was gone. Geralt moved toward the outskirts of town, using the back alleys and side streets where his hearing could be sure to pick up anyone traveling the same route. Jaskier kept himself focused on the sensation of the hunters slowly getting further away.

As soon as Geralt deemed it safe, they both mounted the horses and raced through the night as quickly as they dared. The full moon above them kept the road partially clear--a gift and a curse when it also kept them visible to any pursuers. By the time they slowed, both horses were flecked with sweat and breathing hard.

“You’re sure it was hunters?” the sentinel asked.

Jaskier could tell by the level of strain cascading through the bond that he was still hard at work trying to search for any sign of pursuit. He nodded, wincing at the migraine that was beginning to pulse through his own temples. “Hunters or not, the group definitely didn’t come for peace.”

A grunt. He heard Geralt slide off Roach’s side to walk beside her, trying to help the mare cool down and followed suit. 

“Probably should stay away from towns for a while.”

Jaskier sighed, groaning dramatically. “I wasted a perfectly good night’s pay back there too. We’ll be hard pressed for supplies now.”

“I can hunt.”

“Unless bread starts growing on trees, that isn’t a comfort.”

The soft huff of breath and quick flash of teeth was the only sign of the sentinel’s amusement. They kept walking, watching the sky above them go soft grey then pink with the dawn. Exhaustion made their steps slow and Jaskier let his eyes drift nearly fully closed, letting Buttercup lead him forward.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice startled him out of a fuzzy sort of liminal space and he looked over to find the Witcher watching him with a soft expression. The man nodded his chin in the direction of the trees nearby. “We need to rest the horses. There’s a creek a quarter mile into the trees.”

Jaskier was too tired to question how he could know such a thing, just nodded and followed the path created by the warrior and his horse. Branches scratched and tugged at his clothes, but he ignored it, eager to find a place to sit down and sleep this off.

The trees ahead of them gave way to a meadow backlit by the early morning sunlight. Birds chirped happily overhead and Jaskier waited until Geralt dropped Roach’s reins before nearly collapsing on a rock nearby. The Witcher seemed to take pity on him because he didn’t protest the extra work of taking care of Buttercup too. Sometimes Jaskier wondered if Geralt was secretly soft on the gentle-tempered gelding.

He was drifting into sleep when Geralt nudged him with his foot, jostling him awake. Blinking up at him, he found the sentinel holding out the last of their loaf of bread. “You should eat,” he said gently.

Jaskier took the offering, feeling the now-familiar curl of warmth at the kindness. “Thank you.”

He was nearly done with the piece when Geralt spoke again. “Would you choose this life? If you’d had the choice.”

The guide looked over in surprise at the question from the normally quiet Witcher. He swallowed the bread in his mouth and considered him. “Seeing as neither of us got a choice,” he said slowly, “Why do you ask?”

“This life is dangerous...you’d be safer traveling alone.”

Jaskier frowned. “We look out for each other. That’s how we’ve made it this far. What’s this really about?”

“I want--” Geralt cut himself off and scowled down at his hands. “Never mind what I want,” he muttered, quieter now, “What do  _ you _ want?”

It was obvious that the Witcher wasn’t talking about what Jaskier wanted to do in the coming day or how he thought they should try to avoid hunters in the future. It was the first sign that the sentinel wanted something more from the guide than this strange limbo they’d been trapped in. That it came at the end of a night long sprint to avoid being captured didn’t surprise him. It was a choice--one that shouldn’t come as easily as the words on the tip of his tongue. 

_ You _ , he didn’t say.  _ Always you. _

Instead, he opened his mouth and released a raw noise of pain as it felt like something stabbed into his mind. It was nauseating, blinding. He felt the ground against his knees a moment after he collapsed. Bile rose in his throat, bitter and burning.

That awful power rippled over his shields like a blast of arctic air, burrowing deep into his bones. He gasped, sobbing for air, and reached out blindly for Geralt to push him back towards the relative safety of the woods.

“ _ Go _ ,” he gritted out, “There’s a...guide.”

Geralt’s hesitation was obvious, anchoring him to the reality of all that he needed to keep safe before he could collapse. He didn’t want to think about what a guide would be able to do to the Witcher. Sentinels were always meant to be weak against the abilities of a guide--until now, he’d thought that was a good thing.

The sentinel’s expression went mulish and he reached for the sword across his back. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You know you can’t fight a guide and I may not be strong enough to beat them,” he said, eyes darting around in search of the source of the power that threatened to break through his shields. Instinctively, he checked that Geralt’s mind remained safely hidden from their scan.

“Then we fight them together.”

  
In any other moment, his heart would have soared at the idea of the sentinel finally acknowledging the feelings they’d been dancing around for weeks. Now, he found himself wondering if he was doomed to die in the same sort of tragedy he sang about. He opened his mouth to respond, but was distracted by the figure that seemed to appear at the edge of the trees.

The woman was beautiful, ethereal in a way that felt inhuman. Her eyes scanned over the two of them with the same haughty disdain of a jungle cat considering its next meal. A curvy body designed to draw attention was wrapped in dunn colored pants with a white blousy shirt tucked into them. A fur-lined cloak completed the outfit of a huntress in human form. It was obvious that she was to blame for the unexpected attack. She had enough talent that Jaskier was hard pressed to keep her firmly out of his and Geralt’s head, but he refused to give ground to her.

The sentinel’s voice was shocked as he came to stand beside Jaskier. “Yennefer?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you can imagine how well this is about to go.


	10. Chapter 10

Yennefer was a problem.

Jaskier tensed as the guide started forward, unwilling to lower his guard when the memory of her attack was still throbbing at his temple. He edged closer to the Witcher, ready to defend him if she tried to force the sentinel to go with her.

“When I heard there were hunters in the area, I should have assumed they were following you,” she called, smiling a hunter’s smile at them both. “You must have truly fallen on hard times if  _ this _ was the best anchor you could find.”

Jaskier felt a hot flush curl up his neck when Geralt didn’t refute the obvious insult directed at him. He narrowed his eyes at her and considered the merits of using one of the Witcher’s weapons to slit her throat. 

“What are you doing here, Yenn?” Geralt asked before Jaskier could do more than open his mouth.

The other guide tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder in a move that drew the eye to the pale skin of her neck and the faint swell of her breast. “I’m supposed to meet up with a few runners nearby, but heard rumors that the hunters were moving into the area. It was just luck that I ran into you two.”

“ _ Luck _ ,” Jaskier sneered while Geralt gave him a warning look.

“Speaking of luck,” Yennefer drawled with a mean little smile directed at him, “tell me about your new little...guide, Geralt. Did something happen to Eskel since the last time I was at Kaer Morhen?”

The reference to the other guide that Geralt had had a relationship with made something sour twist in his gut. Possessiveness wasn’t something that was new to him, but he knew better than to believe Geralt would accept the darker sides of his nature. He didn’t want to be face to face with a reminder that the sentinel had no interest in pursuing anything but the freedom that would come when their bond was removed.

“Eskel is fine,” Geralt said shortly. “Bonded to Aiden and Lambert.”

“How exciting.”

Despite her droll tone, the mage’s eyes remained fixed to the guide across from her. He could feel her pressing against his shields, feeling for any sort of weakness she could use to her advantage. It sent shivers of pain down his spine, but he ignored it. He knew better than to show weakness in front of a predator.

But when she turned her attention to the bond linking the two of them, Jaskier couldn’t restrain the hiss of fury.

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ .”

Geralt looked surprised by the sudden outburst and Jaskier felt the sentinel reach out in a physical anchor against the growing strain from his abilities. “Yenn,” he said, “Enough.”

She tossed him a look. “So sensitive.”

“What do you know about the hunters in the area?” Geralt asked.

“Not much. I wasn’t expecting to run into them so close to my route.”

“Your route?” Jaskier repeated, frowning. “What are you transporting?”

The guide shot a look toward the Witcher that was too complicated to understand. Her arms crossed over her chest as her stance shifted into something more challenging with each beat of silence. 

“Yennefer helps guides and sentinels avoid a life of servitude.” She looked furious at Geralt giving away so much about her and Jaskier couldn’t resist a bit of smugness at the sign of trust. “It’s how we met.”

“Something I’m beginning to regret more and more,” she grumbled. 

“If hunters are in the area, you can’t be too choosy. They’ll be looking for someone like you.”

The way she’d reacted to the presence of another guide abruptly made more sense. “You think they’re expecting you.”

Violet eyes snapped to him with begrudging approval at his observation. She gave a short nod. “It would appear so.”

“Who else knew you were coming this way?” Geralt asked.

“No one.” Her full lips pursed as she considered the question again. “It could only be someone who knows my routes, but the only ones that could are the other Wolves and someone I might have shuttled out of this kingdom. They might have guessed that I would be heading north this time of year.”

“What’s up north?” Jaskier asked curiously.

For a moment he didn’t think they would answer and began to attempt to cover up his disappointment at the reminder that neither of them apparently thought he was worth trusting. Then, Geralt sighed and looked at Yennefer with a plaintive expression. “He’s one of us.”

The other guide waited a moment longer before finally releasing some of the tension in her shoulders. “Freedom,” she said simply.

Jaskier looked between the two of them with a frown. “I don’t understand. There isn’t anything past the mountains, but more snow.”

“That’s what we want you to think.”

Geralt cut in before she could continue to be cryptic. “There’s an old keep there--it used to be where they trained Witchers before the cull. Now, it serves as a safe haven for people looking to escape hunters and the sentinel/guide markets on the Continent.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s…Why have I never heard of this?”

The idea of there being some secret haven where guides and sentinels were no longer forced into hiding sounded like a fairy tale. All the stories of the north were full of terrifying monsters and vicious packs of wolves that hunted down anyone foolish enough to wander away from the small villages that formed the barrier between the civilized world and the wilds. All of a sudden, those stories made a strange sort of sense. 

“That’s the point, bard,” Yennefer scoffed. “If hunters knew about this, there would be an army marching on Kaer Morhen before the end of the day. They would burn it all down and us with it. Still might, if they’ve begun to suspect that we’re moving guides through this area.”

Geralt ran his fingers through his pale hair, tousling it in wild waves around his face. “We need to tell Vesemir and the others about this. Aiden has already been taken.”

“Do you think he might have told them where to find the keep?”

Jaskier could feel the worry and fear seeping through the air around the sentinel and was helpless against the urge to reach out and soothe away the worst of it. Golden eyes went soft in silent thanks before the Witcher returned his focus to the other guide.

“No,” he said firmly, “He would never betray us. Especially not if it meant losing Lambert and Eskel.”

“You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

Geralt shook his head again, a muscle fluttering his jaw as he gritted his teeth.

“You do though, don’t you?” Jaskier asked abruptly, sorting through the small flickers of apprehension and razor sharp focus that he occasionally picked up from the other guide. “You’re one of the mage guides of Aretuza.”

He didn’t have to pretend to be shocked at the realization. Aretuza was built on top of the broken bones and souls of the guide children that were forced through its doors. There were rumors of parents selling their children at the gates and at the hands of the hunters and scouts that scoured every rotting pigpen and noble manor for anyone with hidden talents. Their trainers weren’t content to know they had an army of guides at their fingertips--they only deigned to train guides who possessed the chaos that would allow them the same power as human mage’s on top of their natural abilities.

He’d spent most of his life living in fear of what would happen if he was forced to face whatever nightmares lurked there. Even he knew that the only way he could’ve escaped their clutches was by becoming the weapon they forged or in a body bag.

Now, he stared into the violet eyes of a guide turned mage and wondered if he could survive the violence that simmered in the air between them.

“Clever boy.” The look she leveled at him was as much of a threat as a knife to the throat. “Maybe I can show you what they taught us there.”

“We need to get back to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt interrupted before Jaskier could snipe back at her. “Have you gotten into contact with whoever you were supposed to meet?”

She shook her head. “They might have already been captured for all I know.”

“We need to be sure.”

“How soon can you move?”

Geralt considered the horses and the guide beside him. “First thing in the morning. The horses need to rest or we won’t make it very far.”

Yennefer nodded. “First light then.”

Before Jaskier could work up the nerve to ask her if she would be camping with them that night, the mage turned and disappeared through the trees where she’d first appeared.

* * *

It wasn’t until nightfall that Jaskier managed to speak again.

“You’re in love with her.” The words were bitter as ash.

Geralt looks up, surprise evident in his expression even if he could still feel the emotions if he cared to look down the link between them. The guide forced himself not to look further, afraid of what he would find.

The Witcher looked away from him to frown down at his own hands. “I thought I was.”

“You’re still attracted to her.” 

And didn’t that truth burn like a blade between the ribs?

Geralt shrugged after a beat. “You’d have to be blind not to think Yennefer was attractive.”

Jaskier flinched. Somehow there had been a part of him that had expected Geralt would say no--reassure him even. Not just acknowledge the tangled mass of emotion and memory that remained like a tether between the sentinel and the mage.

“She was--” Geralt’s voice was uneven enough that Jaskier was distracted from his internal misery, drawn despite himself to soothe away the shadows in those golden eyes. “I thought I was in love with her,” he said again, “but I eventually realized that it was nothing more than the pull of a guide to a sentinel.”

Jaskier’s scowl was thunderous, a terrible suspicion blooming. “She used her abilities on you.”

A stiff nod.

“That  _ bitch-- _ ”

A strong hand wrapped around his wrist in a gentle shackle, stopping his forward motion before Jaskier could rush off to gut a mage. Geralt’s expression was softer than Jaskier had ever seen and he tugged gently in a silent request. He smiled faintly when the guide huffed and flopped back to his seat.

“Yennefer and I met a few years back,” he continued evenly, as if he hadn’t just watched Jaskier attempt a murder. “I’d never been around a guide from Aretuza before--just Eskel. She was beautiful and bored and it didn’t take long before we slept together.”

“She was the mage you stayed with last winter.”

“Yes.”

Jaskier gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe past his own fury to focus on the sentinel’s needs. “Was she the first guide you slept with?”

Geralt huffed out a laugh. “Eskel and I might as well be brothers. I certainly wasn’t about to fuck him.”

Ignoring how that last comment seemed to trigger a wave of heat and jealousy, Jaskier forced himself not to react. 

“It was...intense--we were always better at the physical than the emotional side of things. I just didn’t realize how much of that was because we were always stuck in a feedback loop.”

“You didn’t bond?”

Geralt shook his head. “Aretuza’s mages aren’t able to bond. Some kind of...binding that keeps them from forming anything more permanent than what would be useful on a battleground. They’re trained to use their abilities for one thing only--control.”

“She used your designation against you,” Jaskier surmised. “How?”

“At first it was small things--halting arguments, keeping me from second guessing any plans or doubting her intentions.” The sentinel’s lips flattened into a tense line. “It took me far too long to realize that was why I was suddenly so obedient.”

A low growl rumbled through the clearing and it took Jaskier a moment to realize it was coming from him. “Did she use it to convince you to fuck her?”

“Wha--no! No, nothing like that.” Geralt shook his head and continued quickly, “When I confronted her about my suspicions, she broke things off. It’s instinct to use your abilities when you’re a guide. Aretuza spends years teaching guides how to manipulate rulers and nobles in a way that none of them will ever be able to notice until it’s practically second nature to them. It also meant there was no way to ensure anything that happened between us was true and neither of us wanted to ever be helpless to our designations like that. We haven’t seen each other since.”

Abruptly, the Witcher’s distrust and furious reaction to the bond between them when he’d woken up in the cave was understandable, reasonable even. He’d assumed that the warrior had just been furious that the bond had formed without his consent--not that he’d thought Jaskier would use it to keep him docile and under his control. The knowledge sank like a stone in his gut.

“No wonder you don’t want to bond with me,” he whispered. “How could you ever trust a guide after that?”

The sensation of a warm hand reaching out to gently brush down the length of his arm made him look up in surprise to find the sentinel looking at him with an expression too complicated to name.

“I trust you,” he murmured, soft and sincere. “You would never use your abilities to hurt me.”

Jaskier’s heart throbbed painfully in his chest, leaping like it was trying to close the distance between them. Words seemed to fail him in the wake of the emotion that surged forward, wild and wanting and painfully obvious through their bond. He watched Geralt’s eyes widen in surprise and told himself it didn’t hurt to pull away from the calloused hand and smile a carefully practiced smile. 

“It’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It won’t change anything between us.” When his voice wobbled dangerously, he set his jaw and forced it to return to a normal cadence. “I know you don’t--”

Geralt’s lips met his before he could complete the thought.

A calloused hand reached out to cup one cheek, thumb brushing along a cheekbone that was flushed with surprise and hesitant desire. The sentinel swallowed the soft sound he released, smiling slightly against his lips. Jaskier wanted to feel that smile against his lips for the rest of eternity.

He trembled, swept away in a confusing mixture of emotion and sensation--unable to tell where his own reaction ended and Geralt’s began. Strong hands tunneled through his hair to tilt his head into an angle that shifted the kiss from something soft and chaste to a lush drag of tongue and swollen lips. When Jaskier moved closer, the sentinel’s hands were there to lift him up to straddle strong thighs that flexed with a slow, heady rhythm.

Time slipped past them like water parting around a stone. He was lost in wave after wave of heady arousal, affection and love in equal turns. It was overwhelming, devastating, in a way that promised to destroy him down to the very core of all that he was and forge him anew. 

Slowly, Geralt pulled back and smiled when Jaskier made a soft sound of protest and tried to chase after him, eyes hazy with pleasure. The sentinel leaned forward to press his forehead against the guides.

“You’re mine,” he whispered like a promise and Jaskier’s eyes closed under the weight of all the hope and longing hidden behind each word. “And I’m yours.”

“Always.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY KISSED!!! :))
> 
> ps. For those of you who know me and my writing tendencies, you're right to be worried that I've included this fluffy moment. :3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn more about Yennefer and hear some sad stories.

The next morning found Jaskier and Geralt saddling the horses, eyes sharp on the trees around them. Neither of them wanted to risk running into more hunters because they were too distracted to catch the signs. Jaskier’s head was better after a full night’s sleep, but he knew he needed more time before he was at his full strength.

As soon as Buttercup was saddled, Jaskier walked over to accept the handful of nuts and rabbit jerky that the sentinel offered. It wasn’t the warm meal the bard would have preferred, but it was better than nothing. They would need to ensure that they resupplied soon or the long trek to Kaer Morhen would be even more miserable than the Witcher had already implied.

“Did you sleep well?” Geralt asked and Jaskier felt a brief flash of awkwardness from their bond at the stilted attempt at small talk. Clearly, the sentinel was just as unsure about what to do about what had happened the night before as he was.

So Jaskier leaned against the Witcher’s side and smiled up at him. “I’ll sleep better when we actually get to stay in a bed.”

“You’ll have to wait until we reach Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said with a slight frown. “It’s too much of a risk right now. We can’t risk being followed.”

The thought of the hunters that were still searching for them erased the relative peace of the morning and kept them silent as they moved towards the trail. 

Yennefer met them at the trail head across the clearing and along a narrow path Jaskier might have missed if Geralt hadn’t nudged him in that direction. The mage was astride a compact bay mare a few shades darker than Roach. Buttercup’s ears pricked curiously at the sight of the new horse, but he stayed loyally next to the Witcher’s mount.

“Morning,” Geralt called. “Were you able to meet up with your cargo?”

The other guide shook her head, her strange eyes narrowed in concentration. Jaskier realized when he felt a faint pulse of her power that she must be scanning the woods around them for any sign of hunters or the escaping guides that she was supposed to meet.

“There’s a final place to check before we head for the keep. They know to keep moving if we don’t make our rendezvous point. It’s a few miles from the next town.”

“Any sign of the hunters?”

“No. We’ll stay off the roads just in case.”

Geralt grunted. “I’ll go ahead and make sure no one is waiting for us.”

The Witcher hesitated, probably realizing that this would leave Jaskier alone with the other guide without the buffer of his presence. The bard merely shrugged and waved him off. If Yennefer wanted to fight, it was better to get it out of the way now. If not, he had plenty of questions for her.

They both watched the Witcher hurry through the trees on Roach before silently following in a single file line down the narrow trail. Around them, the woods settled into its usual melodies of small animals hurrying through the leaves and insects lazily trundling by. The thick foliage ensured that the temperature remained comfortable and Jaskier relished the unexpected chance to relax after such a stressful sprint to freedom.

Not to mention what had happened last night.

Just the reminder of their kiss sent a warm thrum through his chest. He knew if he followed it down the shining link that connected him to Geralt. To  _ his _ sentinel. 

Biting his lower lip, he imagined what it would be like now that they were no longer dancing around the attraction between them. It was foolish to daydream here on the trail with a guide only a few feet away, but he couldn’t resist the temptation of his own imagination. Once they were safe within Kaer Morhen, they could consider their future. Together. Then, they might be able to investigate the physical side of their bond without worrying about Yennefer being an unwilling voyeur.

He raised a finger to trace the edge of his lips and resisted the urge to grin like a lovestruck teenager. Despite the lascivious nature of most bards, Jaskier had never been able to truly relax around a lover for fear of accidentally giving himself away. For the first time, he was looking at a future where he didn’t have to hide. Where his partner had seen all of the dark stains on his soul and wanted him anyway. 

“You’re good together,” Yennefer said abruptly, drawing Jaskier out of his own thoughts. “You and Geralt. He seems...more centered.”

The trail widened enough that Jaskier found himself walking alongside her, unsure how to approach this subject. 

“Thank you,” he finally replied, hesitant.

She smirked a little, clearly amused by his nervousness. “I never would have thought Geralt would bond with anyone. He didn’t think it was necessary, I think.”

“You two talked about bonding?” Jaskier asked, trying to ignore the flair of jealousy. 

“As much as we talked about anything,” she said with a grim twist of her mouth. “We were never much good at talking.” The mage looked over at him with one dark eyebrow raised. “He told you we were together?”

“Yes.”

“Judging from your reaction, I guess he told you that we didn’t part initially on the best terms.” She glanced over towards him. “When we met one another, we didn’t realize how much our designations would affect our relationship. I had just escaped from Aretuza and he was struggling to remain on the Path without a guide to keep him sane. We were doomed from the start.”

Suddenly, he understood why she’d brought this up.

“You want to make sure I’m not doing the same thing to him.”

Yennefer turned to face him, her power brushing along his shields like static electricity. “Are you?”

He shook his head, horrified at the thought. Then he reconsidered, “I suppose I did, at first. I pulled him out of a zone, but it ended up creating a temporary bond. It was an accident.”

She looked thoughtful. “It makes it difficult to decide how much of your relationship was your choice and how much is just your designation searching for an anchor.”

“That’s why you two broke it off.”

A nod. “Neither of us cared to risk taking the ability to choose away from the other. We didn’t want to become a new shackle keeping us imprisoned.”

“I don’t want that for him either,” Jaskier said. “I refuse to become like the hunters. He deserves more than a life thinking he is nothing more than a soldier.”

For the first time, he felt the slightest taste of approval from her like the faint warmth of an oven. Her face remained impassive and he told himself that this reaction shouldn’t mean so much. It was obvious that the relationship between the other guide and sentinel was too complicated for this quick conversation, but he couldn’t ignore the relief that it wasn’t jealousy, but protectiveness that tempered her actions towards him.

“You’re either incredibly talented or incredibly lucky to have avoided hunters this long,” she said matter-of-factly, changing the subject quickly enough that he looked at her in surprise. “Your shields are passable, but you’re too reactive to your surroundings. Who trained you?”

He shrugged. “No one. I tried finding books to research it, but I couldn’t risk attracting unwanted attention.”

“That’s why you’re a bard,” she guessed, looking thoughtful. “No one thinks twice about a bard moving in and out of cities.”

Jaskier nodded. Becoming a bard had been a combination of his love of music and his need to avoid hunters or people without designations from noticing his abilities. He was lucky that he’d learned to play the lute before leaving his parents’ home--even if that was the last thing they’d planned when they’d given him a music tutor.

“I commend you for choosing to remain around crowds when you’re so easily affected.”

He glanced over at her, surprised by the somewhat cordial tone between them without Geralt acting like a buffer. “Your attack cut through my shield easily enough.”

She shrugged, a small, smug smile curving her lips. “You need to prepare yourself for the day when you’ll face another trained guide.”

It was a grim reality that they would eventually have to face another one of their kind. Even if Kaer Morhen was a safe haven, there would always be people attempting to find it and enslave the guides and sentinels sheltered there.

“Can I…” he hesitated before soldiering on, “ask you about Aretuza?”

The mage’s face went curiously blank and Jaskier didn’t need to be a guide to feel the desolation lurking beneath the skin. It made him want to reach out and soothe, but he forced himself to remain still. 

“What about it?”

“Is it true that they use guides for soldiers?” 

She pursed her lips, but did not rebuke his curiosity. “Yes--though not all of us were used to fight. There are more subtle uses for a guide.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine how a guide to turn the tides of conflicts and negotiations between kingdoms. All it would take was a pulse of calm or anger in the midst of a conversation between diplomats to manipulate the results. Without a designation, most humans wouldn’t even notice that their emotions were being toyed with. Even better, men had a tendency to overlook the skills of a beautiful woman dressed in silks instead of armor.

“They must be confident in their guide’s loyalties,” he said after a moment of consideration, “if they let you go away from the tower to interact with other kingdoms.”

Yennefer’s eyes flashed and he got a brief flash of grief so intense that he felt the air leave his lungs in a rush before her shields returned and she returned to her usual mask of disinterest. Still, the sound of derision she released had little to do with any sort of humor. “Aretuza knew how to ensure we returned.”

Jaskier watched her, wishing his imagination wasn’t quite so good at connecting the dots. Tentatively, he lowered his shields enough to absorb some of her heartache and grief, shuddering a little at the sensation.

When she looked over at him, there was the slightest hint of gratitude in her eyes though neither of them mentioned it. “They had us bond with one another. To anchor us.”

“But that’s impossible,” he said slowly, “I’ve never heard of anyone being able to anchor with someone who wasn’t the opposite designation.”

“They make sure to mangle our designations until we aren’t able to form that kind of bond anymore first. The ‘Ascension’--I think they gave it a better name so we didn’t try to run for it and get killed by the guards.” Yennefer’s eyes held enough pain that Jaskier knew better than to ask what that process entailed.

“I’m sorry.” Soft, sincere, and far too simple for the devastation he could feel like a wave dragging her under.

She cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes to scan the trees ahead of them. “They encouraged us to bond, to try to keep us ‘balanced’. That way, if a guide was to be sent out of the tower on an assignment, they could keep their partner there.”

“To make sure you came back,” he finished for her when she fell silent.

Abruptly, he thought that perhaps the stories about Aretuza that were whispered around taverns and inns were far too kind. The idea of being brought into a place where guides were tortured and robbed of any chance ever finding someone to bond with or to choose a life for themselves was horrific. That it happened to children sold into the service of the tower by their own parents was heartbreaking.

He wanted to burn it to the ground with all of the people responsible for it still inside.

Yennefer toyed with the reins of her horse before she nodded, spine stiff as a soldier going to war. There was courage and challenge in the line of her jaw and the steadiness of her violet eyes on his.

“Did you…” He cut off the question before he could complete it, knowing it was far too painful. The thought of losing his bond with Geralt brought a sharp bolt of fear and apprehension through him. It wasn’t hard to connect the grief still lingering in the air around her like a shroud to the experiences of guides in Aretuza’s tower.

For a long moment, there was no other sound but the birds overhead and the horses’ hooves against the packed earth.

“Her name was Triss.” Jaskier looked back with wide eyes, but the mage kept her eyes focused on some distant point. “It’s been five years since I’ve seen her.” A bitter twist of her lips, “I’m not even sure if she’s still alive.”

“How did you escape?”

“They wanted me to kill Aedirn’s queen and her newborn, but I refused. I didn’t want to kill the child.” Her eyes flicked over at him. “Childbirth is another ‘distraction’ for guides of the Tower.”

Jaskier took a deep breath to keep his rage at bay.

“I killed my handler, but I was too late for the baby or her mother. I knew that if I went back to the Tower it wouldn’t be just me who was made an example of. They would kill her if I came back.” A muscle fluttered in her jaw. “So I faked my death.”

“And started helping guides and sentinels escape Aretuza,” Jaskier guessed.

She nodded, a small flicker of satisfaction in her expression. “Until I find an army willing to destroy the tower brick by brick, I’ll make sure to keep them from hurting more children.”

Jaskier watched her with a terrible sort of understanding and didn’t comment on the truth she’d been so careful to avoid in her description of her efforts to shuttle guides and sentinels out of Aretuza.

He didn’t want to think about what it would be like to look for the other half of his heart and never see them looking back.

* * *

  
  


The small village they entered into was barely more than four houses huddled together in a clearing carved out of the dense woods. Geralt looked down the narrow path leading away from them suspiciously, clearly considering their ability to keep themselves safe against unexpected visitors. 

Yennefer slid a leg over the side of her horse and landed lightly on the ground, nary a hair out of place. “We’re safe here. The mayor owes me a favor.”

“Hell of a favor,” Jaskier muttered as he followed her lead and slipped off Buttercup with considerably less grave. “It doesn’t look like there’s enough people to warrant a mayor.”

“That’s why it’s perfect.”

Geralt looked a little curious about the people slowly appearing out of the simple cabins to check out the strangers. Jaskier could feel the Witcher’s apprehension like a cold sweat along his spine and reached out to brush his hand over the sentinel’s arm in silent support. Whatever had happened between them last night, he had no intention of pretending nothing had changed.

“We’ll stay here for a day or so and give my contact a chance to catch up with us. I don’t want to risk waiting longer if there are still hunters looking for us,” Yennefer continued. “We can get the supplies we need for the trip.”

Jaskier scanned the area around them, a mixture of grateful that he wouldn’t be forced to deal with crowds and disgruntled that their chances of having a bed for the night was fast disappearing. “I guess it was too much to hope for a tavern to play for the night.”

“Don’t worry, bardling,” the mage said with a quicksilver smile, “the Witchers will be more than happy to have something to listen to besides Vesemir’s snoring this winter.”

Geralt snickered. “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

Jaskier watched them interact through the lens of the conversation he’d had with Yennefer that day. It hadn’t made them instant friends, but he could at least rest easy without worrying that there was anything romantic between them. There was nothing but casual affection and the ease that came with knowing each other long enough to know what to expect in return. It wasn’t perfect, but it was cemented by their dedication to helping get other guides and sentinels to freedom.

“I hope they have better taste than Geralt,” Jaskier said, grinning a little at the Witcher’s grumble.

“You’ll probably fall in love with Eskel--everyone does.” Yennefer led them through the tiny village towards a barn at the outskirts. Judging from the lack of interaction with the locals, he guessed they were careful to avoid anything that might make them a target of the hunters. “He’s got a nice collection of books that he’s willing to share in return for a good story.”

Jaskier took in the dilapidated building doubtfully. “Are you sure we can trust these people?”

“A few years ago, a family from this village had two little girls. A sentinel and a guide, already bonded in the womb and all the more powerful for it. They were too valuable to go overlooked for long.” Yennefer’s voice was flat in a way he recognized as a way to disguise the emotions lurking beneath. He was careful not to abuse that silent request by attempting to reach out with his own talents. “Unlike most, their parents didn’t want to give them up. They wanted them to be safe.”

_ Not like us _ , she didn’t say. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about what it had been like to realize his parents were only waiting until he was old enough to be a useful bargaining chip with Aretuza or any of the other ‘schools’. 

“Somehow, the hunters found them and came to take them away. Their parents tried to fight…” Her voice trailed off as her lips pursed. “These people are the only ones who survived the attack. The hunters wanted to make an example of them--instead, they forced them to pick a side.”

The tragedy of this place seemed to seep into the weathered wood and absorbed the sound of their footsteps as they moved forward. It made him want to lower his voice to avoid disturbing the spirits of the people who had given everything to protect the most vulnerable member of their community.

“Did the girls get away?”

“No.”

The abruptness of the answer did little to disguise the tragedy in the word. He looked back at the eyes peeking around the edges of doors and windows and wished he could erase the nightmares they’d faced. It was the double edged sword of being a guide--they felt the pain but had little power to change fate.

“We’ll be safe here until tomorrow,” Yennefer continued. “That’s as long as I’m willing to wait before we need to move on. I haven’t heard any updates from my contact in a few days. The guide who was supposed to make the run might have gotten picked up already.”

“The horses could use the rest. There won’t be anywhere to rest once we get closer to the mountains.” Geralt patted Roach’s neck and set about meticulously checking her hooves for anything that might have gotten stuck there.

Jaskier smiled at him, charmed by the warrior’s subtle devotion to his horse. It was so different from the vision of the terrifying Witchers that had lurked in the shadows of the myths of the Continent. Geralt looked up at him with a curious expression, reacting to the wave of warmth through the bond, but the bard shrugged.

“Do you think they’ll have enough to resupply here?” he asked the other guide. “It would save us a trip into town.”

“The mayor might have some supplies to spare if you’ve got money,” Yennefer replied. “Do you want me to take you to her?”

He shook his head, already moving toward the door. “I think I can find my way around.”

“Don’t get into trouble,” Geralt called after him.

Tossing a grin over his shoulder, Jaskier batted his eyelashes in a faux innocent expression.  _ Who, me? _ He mouthed before slipping out the door.

Outside, the bright sunlight seemed at odds with the ghosts he imagined roaming around this area. Now that he knew what to look for, it was easy to pick out the frames of the abandoned homes that were being absorbed into the forest. He wished there was a graveyard where he could pay his respects to a family who loved each other enough to risk everything.

He walked towards the small, lonely cluster of homes. In the back of his mind, he could feel the ripples of their fear, curiosity, and grief in equal measure. This village knew better than anyone what risks they faced and still chose to continue protecting guides and sentinels when the rest of the Continent was content to pretend they didn’t see the death in their midst. That they didn’t know the children dragged down the streets for faraway towers and armies.

A middle aged, grizzled woman with a spine of steel met him outside a neat house that still boasted a few flowers even if the paint was peeling. Her dark hair was greying at the temples, but her eyes held a quiet intelligence that matched the determination and focus that rippled through her shields.

“Hello,” he greeted. “I’m Jaskier.” 

Geralt could gripe at him later for giving away the information about himself, but he had no intention of lying to someone who was risking their life for him.

“Sif.” She gave him a quick look and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re a guide.”

There was no question in her voice, but he nodded anyway. “Yes. How could you tell?”

“Charlie used to get the same look when he met new people,” she said and the echo of her grief made Jaskier’s breath stutter out of his chest. “What do you want?”

“I was hoping you might have some supplies you could spare. We would pay you, of course.” He gave her a friendly smile, careful to keep his posture and expression nonthreatening. “I was hoping to avoid eating nothing but scrawny rabbits for the next few weeks.”

She grunted and turned back toward the house. “I can get you some travelor’s bread and some dried vegetables from last year’s harvest. We don’t have much selection.”

“That’s alright,” he said with no small amount of eagerness. “Anything to break up the monotony--I don’t enjoy roughing it quite like a Witcher.” 

Without hesitation, he reached for his coin purse and offered it over. It was far more than the price of the food she’d described, but he didn’t mind ensuring these people had an easier time before the oncoming winter.

There was a small smile at the edge of her lips like she was charmed by his open distaste for scraping his way through the trees. She accepted the pouch, but reached in to count out a few coins before pushing it back in his direction. “Keep the rest. You’ll probably need it again before you reach your destination,” Sif said briskly. “How long will you be here?”

He noticed she was careful not to ask about where they were going from here. It was probably the safest way to ensure Yennefer’s route to freedom wasn’t destroyed if someone was forced into talking. Clever, if depressing.

“I think we’ll leave tom--”

The sound of hoofbeats distracted him from the question and he heard the sound of the barn door coming open as a rider raced through the trees towards the town. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a filler chapter, but I promise the action picks up again in the next chapter. I hope you liked it!


	12. Chapter 12

Jaskier sent a bolt of panic through the link with his sentinel, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get here before the rider was within reach. Hopefully, Geralt would realize the warning for what it was and not do anything stupid. If the hunters had found the village, it would be better for everyone if they were able to escape quietly.

He ducked out of sight from the main road and reached for his own abilities to try to get an idea of who was approaching. Whoever it was had enough shields in place that he knew they must have a decent amount of training to be able to block him so effectively. All he got were the faintest stirrings of exhaustion and steely focus before he was forced to retreat within his own shields to avoid attracting attention.

Whoever the rider was, they were obviously a talented guide.

Sif smoothly stepped out to face the rider--riders, he corrected once he caught sight of the two figures atop the sweaty horse. “Can I help you?” she called.

The bard kept himself ducked into the shrubs beside the house, eyeing the women as they pulled the horse to a stop. There was a seemingly unconscious woman propped up by a sharp eyed, dark skinned woman that rippled with barely suppressed power. She wore the pale grey gowns that he recognized as the uniforms preferred by Aretuza and the like. Her eyes flicked over Sif before sliding to where Jaskier was still hiding like she could sense him.

In contrast, the woman in her arms was pale beneath tan skin, highlighting a beautiful spray of freckles across high cheekbones. Thick, curly hair was windswept and spotted with leaves from their mad dash through the trees. She wore a ragged looking dress that might have once been a rich green, but was stained and ripped along the edges. Her eyes fluttered restlessly beneath closed lids.

The grey clad women frowned down at Sif. “I’m--”

Before she could answer, the door to the barn slammed open and Geralt and Yennefer stepped through. The sentinel had his sword raised like he was looking for a target to swing at while his eyes continued to search until he picked out Jaskier. He could feel the worry and fear like a cold sweat through their bond and hated how often they found themselves wondering if they were facing imprisonment or death.

Yennefer’s hands were curled at her sides, palms cradling a crackling purple flame. “Jaskier!” she shouted, widening her stance in preparation to fight. “Go!”

Jaskier stood to run towards the sentinel and felt the strange guide’s eyes flick over to him in surprise as he darted out of his hiding spot. He had to hope the surprise would be enough to keep him safe long enough to grab Sif and run.

“Yennefer?”

All of them seemed to freeze at the sound of the guide’s voice.

He looked over in time to see Yennefer’s eyes widen in shock. The magic burning at her fingertips flickered as her focus zeroed in on the other guides. She frowned, taking a step forward before recognition washed over her expression. “Fringilla?” she said, “What are you doing here?” 

She took another step forward before her eyes fell on the woman in Fringilla’s arms. All color disappeared from her face as her mouth dropped and she lost her hold on her magic. It flickered and died along with her normally impenetrable shields over her emotions.

_ Longingterrorhopelovelovelove-- _

Jaskier shuddered all over, raising his hand to his head as though he could ward off the emotions with a gesture. There was only one reason for Yennefer to react so viscerally to the unconscious guide.

Triss.

Yennefer sprinted across the distance between them, hands shaking with a mixture of hope and fear that it was already too late. “What happened to her?” she demanded, hesitating a moment before reaching out to gently tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Why is she unconscious?”

“I grabbed her from the cells,” Fringilla said, “She was like this when I found her.”

Geralt stepped up beside the guides, glancing over at Jaskier for confirmation that he was alright, before stopping at Yennefer’s side. “We should get her out of sight,” he murmured. “It looks like you could both use some rest.”

He looked at Yennefer again before reaching up to help Fringilla ease the injured guide off the horse. As soon as she was free from the saddle, the violet-eyed mage was pressed against her side, worry pouring off her. The sight of it made Jaskier’s heart ache for the guides and what they’d been through in Aretuza.

Jaskier reached for the reins of the exhausted horse while Fringilla dismounted. He looked her over curiously, but her face and emotions remained carefully neutral. Judging from the state of the two guides and their mount, they must have been on the run for days. They limped back into the barn while Sif silently remained watching from the yard of her house. He’d have to go back and see if she had enough food to take on the extra empty stomachs.

As soon as they were inside the barn, Yennefer immediately urged Geralt to settle Triss into the makeshift bed of hay and saddle blankets. The guide crouched down beside her bondmate, hands hovering over her like she was afraid to touch. There was a clammy sweat dotting Triss’ skin and an unhealthy flush to her cheeks that made it obvious that something was wrong.

“How long has she been like this?” Yennefer asked Fringilla.

Geralt stepped closer to Jaskier like he needed to reassure himself that his guide was unhurt. The bard gave him a soft smile, trying not to be charmed by the mixture of emotions lurking behind his impassive expression. It didn’t take much to consider how much seeing Triss and Fringilla would inspire the protective nature of a sentinel. Jaskier was more concerned with how Yennefer was handling the return of her injured bondmate.

It was one thing to wonder if Triss was hurt. It was another to see it first hand.

“We’ve been running for three days,” Fringilla said shortly, “She hasn’t been conscious in at least two.”

“How did you escape?”

“Bribed a guard. Triss was the only one I could get to before the next rotation began.”

Yennefer’s expression shuttered as she looked down at the unconscious woman. Her fingers smoothed over the front of her tattered dress to straighten it over her legs. It was obvious that wherever Triss had been held, they’d been abusing her.

“Where was she being held?” Jaskier asked.

Fringilla gave him a sharp eyed look before looking back at Yennefer. “Who are they?”

“Geralt and Jaskier.” Yennefer barely looked away, pulling off her own fur-lined cloak to lay over Triss. “They’re traveling with me.”

It was obvious that she was vouching for them both, but he couldn’t decide if the lack of detail was to protect them or to keep Fringilla for knowing too much about what they were doing here. He wasn’t sure how much Yennefer could trust anyone from Aretuza.

“After Yennefer’s escape, Triss was sent back to test for a new bondmate,” Fringilla explained. The guide’s lips flattened with disdain even if none of her emotions bled through her shields. Yennefer, on the other hand, looked like she was struggling to control her reaction to the thought of Triss being ‘encouraged’ to bond with another guide. Somehow, Jaskier doubted they would care much about Triss’ choice. “She attacked the next guide they attempted to pair her with.”

Yennefer released a sound huff of air, lips curling. “Everyone always assumed I was the more contrary of the two of us. I knew better.”

Pride bled through the chaotic mixture of love and worry emanating from her.

“They sent her south to be retrained.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure what that meant, but it wasn’t hard to imagine based on the way the mage’s power crackled in the air around her like it was looking for a target.

Yennefer’s voice was little more than a hiss. “How long?”

Fringilla shrugged. “I was only in that location for a month.”

Something about the nonchalant way the other guide talked about Triss sat oddly with Jaskier. He watched the way her eyes continued to drift over to the weapons Geralt carried and the horses in the stalls nearby like she was looking for something. There was no sign of the worry that consumed Yennefer or even the concern he would expect from someone willing to run from Aretuza with the injured woman in tow.

“How did you find me?” Yennefer asked before Jaskier could ask.

“I heard a rumor that there was someone who could get me out of Aretuza’s reach,” she said. Jaskier noticed that her description seemed to disregard the presence of Triss. “A baker--a woman named Kaer--in Skellige told me of this village and that I might be able to find the runner. Are you the one who’s been helping guides escape all these years, Yennefer?”

“And sentinels.” The violet eyed woman gave Fringilla a wan smile. “I’d hoped Triss would eventually be able to escape--I didn’t expect you to be the one to help her do it.”

There was a subtle question in her tone, but the other guide met her eyes without flinching.

“A lot has changed since you left us.”

They watched one another for a beat longer, an eternity of unspoken horrors in the shadows behind their eyes. Jaskier wanted to shiver in the wake of it.

“Why don’t I see if Sif has enough food for our guests?” Jaskier offered, glancing over at Geralt meaningfully.

The Witcher nodded and started toward the exit. “I’ll see if there’s anything worth hunting around here.”

Yennefer didn’t protest so they continued out of the barn and into the open sunlight. The two guides of Aretuza were already talking between themselves and Jaskier watched them for a beat before carefully closing the barn doors.

“You’re lucky they weren’t hunters,” Geralt said as soon as he fell into step beside the sentinel. He frowned at him, a deep furrow in his brow. “I wouldn’t have been able to reach you in time.” 

“Do you know Fringilla?” Jaskier asked absently, distracted by thoughts of the two guides who’d appeared so suddenly.

“I haven’t met many guides--especially not from Aretuza. Why?”

“I just think it’s strange that after all these years two guides just happen upon Yennefer’s route.”

“She must tell people about her route if she’s going to attract guides and sentinels needing to escape,” Geralt pointed out. “Did you see something that made you suspect something else was going on?”

Jaskier fell silent for a moment, considering. 

There wasn’t anything he could point to as being strange or suspicious in Fringilla’s story of how they’d stumbled upon this small village. It was obvious that Triss had been injured and imprisoned for some time even if Fringilla looked to be in good health. Maybe Fringilla had noticed the abuse of a fellow guide and escaped with her as quickly as they could. Maybe she’d seen enough horrors within the walls of Aretuza that she’d taken the first opportunity to run. 

He told himself to set aside the wary nature he’d developed after years of traveling alone. Geralt and Yennefer weren’t about to let someone dangerous travel with them. Fringilla had risked her life to get Triss away from Aretuza when she could have easily disappeared on her own. She deserved to have a chance to make a new life for herself.

“No,” he finally answered and smiled up at the sentinel, “Do you think you could find anymore of those berry bushes while you’re out?”

* * *

The next morning they’re forced to leave the temporary shelter of the barn and the village for the treacherous road leading north. From now on the paths will only get more difficult as they slowly make their way through the foothills to the mountain beyond. The same terrain that ensured no army would attempt to take Kaer Morhen and the runaways within its walls made it nearly impossible to travel without someone who’d been there before.

“When was the last time you went home?” Jaskier asked Geralt as they saddled Roach and Buttercup. The grey gelding lipped at his pockets hungrily, looking for any hidden treats.

“It’s been two winters since I made the journey. Last winter, I was with Yenn and before that I was too injured to make the path up to the keep.”

“Is it really that hard to get there?”

“We call it The Killer for a reason, bardling.” Geralt’s voice is fond.

For a few minutes, they work in comfortable silence. Jaskier was getting better about saddling Buttercup on his own and Geralt made an approving noise when he double checked the girth strap. Roach flattened her ears at him, disgusted as always. He smirked a little at the familiar sight and casually offered the last of the crabapples he’d found that morning. The mare was never too full of disdain to pass up any treats.

Yennefer came over a few minutes later with her own mare already saddled. “We’ll need to rotate Triss from rider to rider if we want to keep the horses from getting worn down before we reach the pass.”

“How is she this morning?” Jaskier asked, glancing over at the unconscious guide. “Has she woken up at all?”

It was odd to look over and see the pale form of another person, but not be able to identify any of the emotions they were feeling. Like looking into a still pond and seeing nothing but shadows beneath the water. It was obvious from the physical signs that she wasn’t well, but her mind seemed too chaotic to define anything beyond pain.

The mage shook her head. “I don’t know what they did to her and we don’t have time for me to brew anything to help her.”

“Vesemir will be able to help,” Geralt said softly, “She’ll hold on. She’s strong.”

“I know she is.” Yennefer’s spine straightened like she was offended at the notion that her bondmate wasn’t strong enough to survive this. It made Jaskier’s heart ache for them both.

He wondered if this is what their lives were always destined for. If they would ever manage to do anything but keep running until the day they were no longer able to remain upright. How long would it be before someone discovered the truth about their identities and abilities? How long before their good luck ran out?

Fringilla’s quiet arrival distracted him from his somber thoughts. The other guide looked like she’d slept on a feather mattress instead of the drafty hayloft with the rest of them. The only marker of her mad dash the day before were a few stains on the pale grey of her gown and the exhausted slump of her horse’s head.

“How long until we reach Kaer Morhen?” she asked.

Geralt glanced up at the sky like he would be able to guess the weather they would face. Maybe he could. “Maybe four days to reach the base,” he said, “and another two days to reach the top assuming we don’t run into any more hunter groups.”

“That long?”

Jaskier frowned a little at Fringilla’s reaction. She sounded annoyed by the amount of time it would take and he didn’t miss the way her eyes darted over to Triss.

“We won’t be able to move quickly in this terrain with an extra rider. The paths are difficult for a reason.”

“Is it true that the keep can withstand an army?”

Yennefer answered before Geralt could, nudging Fringilla gently in a show of camaraderie. It was obvious that whatever their relationship in the past, Fringilla’s rescue of Triss had gone a long way towards ensuring their friendship. “Even Aretuza wouldn’t be able to take over the keep.”

As they made their way onto the narrow path leading away from the quiet village, Jaskier couldn’t help but hope that they wouldn’t be forced to find out if that was true.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Up: The Journey


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy a nice long chapter in thanks for all your wonderful support and comments. <3

Over the next few days they fall into a pattern.

When the sky lightened with the dawn, Geralt would wake and begin stoking the fire and disappear into the woods to forage for anything edible or worth cooking. He’d assured them that it was better to ration the supplies they bought in the village and hunt for as long as they could before they hit the harsh terrain of the mountains. Already, the temperatures were beginning to drop enough that Jaskier was grateful in new ways that he was able to travel with his Witcher and personal heat source.

Jaskier and the other guides were little slower in the mornings though they were able to learn ways to assist around camp. He learned how to skin and cook rabbits and whatever else Geralt brought back and could even identify various herbs and edible plants that grew near their campsites. He’d even taken to drawing and taking detailed notes in his journal that he usually kept for writing songs and spent the rare free time they had huddled near Geralt while the Witcher read over what he’d transcribed, offering additional facts or information.

Once they were fed and the horses were saddled, they would begin their meandering route toward Kaer Morhen. They stayed on backroads and rarely used trails in an effort to keep from running into any towns where someone might recognize them. With Triss injured and their horses burdened with the weight of their gear and an additional person, they couldn’t afford to face another skirmish. The added days of travel were judged to be an acceptable trade for safety, especially as they moved closer to Kaer Morhen.

Yennefer spent most of her time trickling water and broth into Triss’ mouth to try to help her regain her strength. He could sense the way her worry seemed to deepen with each passing day that Triss didn’t regain consciousness. The only time she left the other woman’s side was when she went to forage for more materials for an endless line of attempted cures.

“I don’t understand why this isn’t working,” she whispered two days after Fringilla and Triss’ arrival. “She’s not reacting like she should.”

Jaskier considered the unconscious woman cradled with her head on Yennefer’s lap and tried not to think about what that could mean. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve tried every kind of healing tonic I can manage here. If she was sick, she would have woken up by now at least.”

“Maybe she’s not sick?” he offered hesitantly.

Yennefer frowned down at her bondmate, but, before she could reply, Fringilla spoke up from the other side of the fire. “The trainers might have given her something in the cells to make her more manageable. Are there any healers at Kaer Morhen?” she asked Geralt.

The sentinel nodded. “Vesemir has a library full of healing texts,” he told Yenn, “and a greenhouse just for his potions. We’ll be able to help her there.”

Yennefer nodded and returned to her silent vigil. Jaskier remained silent, watching the way Fringilla settled back into her seat with a satisfied look.

Of their odd group, it was the grey-clothed guide who seemed least interested in the developing friendships and relationships of the others. She remained silent, watchful. Jaskier told himself that this was probably just another side effect of her time at Aretuza, but he couldn’t seem to shake the niggling suspicion that she knew more than she let on about Triss.

Maybe it was the way she lingered near Triss anytime Yennefer had to leave her side. He watched her straighten the cloak covering the other woman, carefully pouring a little of the water in her flask into her mouth. She seemed to be the first to offer to take care of the unconscious guide and he’d begun to notice that Triss seemed to sleep more deeply after Fringilla left her side. 

It felt like he was missing something.

Oddly, he was the only one who held any disbelief towards the guide’s intentions. Geralt was too distracted by the threat of the hunters on their tail and the difficulties of keeping their growing party alive in the wilderness. Yennefer was grateful enough that Fringilla had saved Triss that she wasn’t interested in anything else. There was a shared life experience and a camaraderie that could only come from years of trauma at the hands of Aretuza’s masters. She didn’t seem to think the other guide’s distant behavior was anything out of the ordinary.

* * *

He dared to ask Fringilla about Aretuza only once.

“What’s it like?” he’d asked as they moved into the woods to forage for firewood. When she looked back at him in silent query, he explained, “In Aretuza, I mean.”

“It’s...structured.” Her brow furrowed as she seemed to search for the words to describe it. Absently, her fingers traced a small silver necklace with a locket around her neck. “A guide left untrained is weak, vulnerable. You live at the whims of others’ emotions and are unable to control anything. Our trainers hone the natural gifts of a guide and turn them into something that can benefit society.”

“How long were you there?”

“My parents brought me to the tower as soon as I showed any signs of empathy. They knew how dangerous it would be to try to keep me there.”

_ For yourself or for others? _ He thought acerbically.

Jaskier grabbed a few branches from a fallen tree and considered the other guide. “You don’t sound like you are against forcing guides to go to Aretuza.”

She looked at him sharply, dark eyes fathomless. For a moment, he felt her power drift over the edges of his shields before disappearing entirely. Her smile was tight and didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I left there, didn’t I?”

The bard nodded slowly, glancing away towards the leafy ground to avoid the growing suspicion in her gaze. “Sorry,” he said weakly, “I’ve just always been curious about what it would have been like if I’d been captured.”

He could feel the weight of her focus like the press of heat from an open oven, burning through skin to the soul beneath. Fringilla looked mollified by the excuse of his curiosity at least. “You’re powerful enough--for someone who has not been taught control. Given the proper training, you could become a valuable addition.”

“I’ve done fine on my own.”

“You are untested,” she said, a strange light reflecting in her eyes. “You’ve barely scratched the surface of what a guide can become.”

Jaskier tried not to narrow his eyes at her, irritated at the implication and the impassive expression on her face. “It’s been enough to keep Geralt and I safe from hunters. That’s all I want.” He grabbed another handful of kindling and turned away. “I’ll meet you back at camp.”

He felt her eyes following him like a target on his back.

* * *

“You’re just being paranoid,” Geralt reassured when Jaskier confessed his suspicions and his strange conversation.

“She’s unsettling.”

“All of Aretuza’s guides are. They aren’t exactly training them to be courtesans there.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, “but I think she knows more about what’s going on with Triss.”

“Why would she save Triss if she was going to hurt her later? It doesn’t make sense.”

Jaskier frowned, but nodded slightly to acknowledge the point.

Geralt leaned closer, a comforting weight against his side. His hand reached out to pull the guide more firmly against him within the shelter of their shared blankets. “Besides,” he continued gently, “she’d have to be able to stop the three of us if she wanted to try anything.”

The guide listened to the others settling in for the night and tried to take comfort in the thought.

* * *

Triss still wasn’t waking up.

He could feel Yennefer’s growing worry like the beginnings of a migraine in the back of his skull. She was restless, barely sleeping for fear of something changing or going wrong. The more remedies she tried, the more anxious she was becoming.

“We’re going to have to risk going into town,” she announced to Geralt. “I think she’s getting worse.”

The Witcher looked over at the limp woman, safe within a makeshift shelter they’d erected against the drizzling rain. “We don’t know if the hunters will be searching for us this far north. We can’t risk them following us to Kaer Morhen.”

“We don’t have enough supplies to make the trip with the two of them and they need winter gear or we’ll be dealing with frostbite.”

_ She might not make it _ , her eyes said even if she couldn’t speak the words out loud.

The bad weather ensured that they weren’t moving anywhere fast. The ground was already slick with mud and the temperature was dropping steadily. Soon, their cloaks and blankets would be next to useless. This close to the mountains they were likely dooming themselves to sickness or hypothermia.

“Maybe I can scout out the town,” Jaskier offered. “Hunters don’t look twice at bards. I might even be able to get some extra money to play for the evening.”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Geralt protested. 

“It’s the best plan. Witchers are too noticeable and we’d  _ definitely _ attract attention if we all came.”

Yennefer shook her head. “If the hunters know they’re looking for a bard, they could attack you while you’re in town. You don’t have the training to fend them off.”   
  


“Oh, right. I’d forgotten that I was incapable of protecting myself,” Jaskier grouched back at the two of them, “I only managed for the last twenty five years without any trouble.”

Geralt shot him a look, rolling his eyes. “I know you can take care of yourself, but that doesn’t mean you should be forced to face a group of trained hunters alone. It’s safer if we stay together.”

Fringilla remained silent, stooping to put the kettle into the glowing embers of the fire. Like always, it was impossible to guess what she thought about their discussion.

“We need supplies.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“But I--” 

Jaskier’s protest was cut out by a dull thunk from somewhere nearby. They all turned in time to see the arrow vibrating in the trunk of the tree closest to Geralt’s head.

“Get down!” the Witcher roared.

The sentinel reached for his weapons and Yennefer’s magic flared to life beside him. All around them, the woods seemed to fill with armed men and women in hunter black. Whatever shield they’d used to cover their movement disappeared a moment later and Jaskier made a rough noise as their emotions seemed to bore into his skull. He had to force himself to drag his shields back into place in order to keep from being completely overwhelmed.

How had they managed to get so close without anyone noticing?

He counted at least a dozen well-armed mercenaries moving to surround their campsite quickly. Two lingered at the edge of their group, carrying a dimeritium chains in preparation for when their fellows brought down the guides and sentinel. It was obvious that they intended to capture as many of them as possible. Almost as though they’d known how many to expect.

Jaskier felt terror sink like a stone in his gut. There was no way this group had just stumbled upon them through luck. Geralt was fastidious about covering their tracks and the evidence of their campsites each night. Their camps were always far from the road’s edge and they limited fires to nights where the temperature demanded it. They hadn’t even been near a town since meeting Sif which meant only one thing.

Someone must have given away their route to the hunters. 

Had they tortured the villagers of the town that had sheltered them? Or had one of the few travelers they’d passed on their meandering path north recognized them for what they were? Escaping the small groups of roving hunters was hard enough--these hunters moved as a unit, working together to try to isolate each of them. It was as though they knew exactly what to expect.

The sky above them reacted to the ambush with a dull rumble of thunder and the patter of rain falling more heavily against the earth. He reached with shaking hands for the small dagger he kept in his belt, knowing pacifism wouldn’t be a choice. The horses stamped their feet anxiously, snorting and tossing their heads at the strangers in their midst. Most of their gear was still scattered around their campsite in preparation for leaving after they ate the breakfast now burning over the fire.

Geralt’s sword swept out in a neat slice, knocking away an arrow that would have struck Yennefer high in the chest. He reached out with a sharp gesture that sent a wave of power slamming into the line of hunters and gave him enough space to pull Jaskier behind him. 

“Get the horses,” he told Jaskier before rushing the nearest hunter with his sword raised.

Immediately, the hunters focused in on Yennefer and Geralt, sensing they were the biggest threats. The mage and the Witcher worked together to keep the group from overwhelming them, fighting back to back in the small clearing. It wouldn’t last forever, but it gave Jaskier an opening to circle around toward the horses and Triss.

The guide wanted to protest the order, wanting to remain close to the sentinel. To help in some way. Instead of giving in to the temptation, he forced himself to remember that out of all of them he had the least amount of combat training and someone would need to get Triss onto one of the horses if they were going to be able to escape this.

Jaskier looked over to watch Yennefer grab a fallen log with a curl of violet energy and hurl it into three hunters attempting to reach the tent where Triss remained. There was no sign of Fringilla in the chaos of the melee and he had to hope she was busy assisting Yennefer. Without hesitating, he abandoned the relative safety of Geralt and sprinted across the clearing toward the horses. Roach he let loose from her ties, confident that she would go to Geralt, while he threw gear and tack on the other two.

He heard the sound of a booted foot circling to the right of him and tightened his hold on his knife. As soon as the hunter stepped around Yennefer’s mare, he lunged forward, stabbing into the soft flesh of the man’s neck.

They stared at one another--one in shock, the other determined--as the hunters life blood spilled out over the front of his shirt. The hunter’s mouth opened in shock, falling to his knees on numb legs. Jaskier felt the pain, surprise, and fear slowly fade alongside the life in the stranger’s head. When he was sure there was no chance the hunter would get back up again, he returned to saddling the horses with bloodstained hands.

There was no way to gather all of their supplies as the battle continued to rage around him so he focused on grabbing what was closest.

Another footstep had him going for his knife once again, but it was Fringilla who appeared at his side. The other guide was breathing heavily in a rare show of strain, but she wordlessly reached to grab the reins of the mare she’d been using. 

“We need a way to lose the hunters,” he said, mind firmly latched to his bond with Geralt for any sign of injury or need.

She didn’t respond, just threw herself into the saddle and started for the woods.

“Fringilla!” he tried to hiss without drawing the attention of the hunters, but she was already out of reach. “Fuck.”

Triss was a dead weight against him as he dragged her across the leaf strewn ground, her head lolling forward and occasionally shifting restlessly. Normally, he would be delighted that she was responding that much, but he couldn’t focus on anything but escape right now. It took him two tries before he managed to awkwardly get her upright and shove her onto Buttercup’s back. He thanked the gods that the grey gelding’s calm nature meant he tolerated Jaskier’s graceless attempts to get her secured.

He was panting by the time he was sure she wouldn’t fall off and turned to seek out Geralt in the melee. 

The sentinel was bleeding from a slice across one arm and the side of his chest, but it didn’t stop him from continuing to hold off three hunters. He could feel the strain of Geralt’s flagging adrenaline against the pain and knew it wouldn’t be long before the Witcher was unable to keep from being overwhelmed. There were still at least eight hunters circling the two fighters. It was obvious that they were willing to wait for the opportunity to capture all of them without damaging them beyond repair.

Yennefer’s shields around her mind were beginning to weaken as well as she channeled her strength toward her magic. One of the hunters lobbed another one of the flash bombs toward Geralt, but she yanked it out of the air and sent it flying into the trees far enough away that it wouldn’t leave the sentinel blinded by his own senses. She turned toward Jaskier and some of the tension in her expression eased when she saw that he had Triss. The other guide shouted something to the Witcher and Jaskier watched him immediately turn toward him.

Geralt raced over, mounting Roach in a smooth gesture that Jaskier would envy in better circumstances. “We need to move,” he said, “Yenn is going to try to buy us some time.”

“How--?”

Before he could complete the question, the air around them went bitterly cold. As he watched, a thick fog seemed to seep from the earth around their horse’s hooves, rising steadily. 

It swirled around their ankles in pale eddies, obscuring the ground beneath their feet. He looked back at the mage and watched the air around her shimmer with the kind of power that made his head ache. There was nothing but grim determination in her expression as she narrowly missed another arrow shot toward her hair in an attempt to distract her from the power she was channeling.

Jaskier tossed the reins of Yennefer’s mare toward Geralt and pulled himself up behind Triss, curving his body over hers protectively as the fog continued to rise. “I’ve got Triss,” he said, “Get Yenn!”

The sentinel nodded and tapped his heels into Roach’s side to send her to the mage’s side. Jaskier waited until the dark haired sorceress was climbing into the saddle before he kicked Buttercup into a gallop through the trees. Rain continued to trickle through the canopy above them and he hoped it would be enough to cover their tracks away from camp. With little choice, he followed the direction Fringilla had taken with the faint hope of finding the other guide.

Tree branches and vines slapped against his face and arms as they plunged into the woods. He kept himself over Triss, keeping her safe from sliding off or being struck by a stray branch. As soon as he was far enough away that Yennefer’s fog began to thin, he urged Buttercup to great speeds, trying to put as much distance between the hunters and their small group. He followed the first game trail he found and was rewarded with the broken branches and muddy hoofprints that marked Fringilla’s path through the area.

Triss’ body was a warm weight against his front and he hoped that the race through the rain wouldn’t add to her sickness. Her head fell into the crook of his neck and he took comfort in her steady breath against his neck. He could feel the sharp juts that marked the effects of her extended time in the dungeons with little food. It was a visceral reminder of what was waiting for them if they were captured.

After thirty minutes of sprinting through the trees, he slowed Buttercup to a walk and turned to watch the woods behind him for any sign of Geralt or Yennefer. 

Through the bond, he could feel Geralt moving closer and he took comfort in the grim focus that had replaced the fear from the earlier fight. If he concentrated, he could sense the cool silence that marked Fringilla’s shielded mind. Clearly, she’d made it to relative safety on her own.

“Nnn…” The unfamiliar murmur of Triss’ voice made him stop and look down in surprise.

The guide was shifting restlessly against him, brow furrowed. He felt hope surge in his chest and he tightened his hold so she was more securely in the saddle. “You’re alright,” he said quickly, “Yennefer is coming.”

“Y...enn?” She sounded groggy, confused and he sent a quick pulse of reassurance against her mind.

“You’re safe. Fringilla got you out of there and found us.” Jaskier looked back in the direction of Geralt and Yennefer, eager for them to see the guide was awake. “Yennefer has been so worried about you. She’ll be so happy you’re awake.”

Triss continued to frown and he watched her eyes fluttered with the effort of opening them. He caught a brief flash of hazel eyes, muddied by confusion. “No…” she rasped. “N--not Frin--”

Her voice broke on the last word and he reached for the water flash at his side. The effort of drinking seemed to take the last of her strength and she sagged against him once more.

“Triss?” he called gently.

There was no answer. 

He debated shaking her awake again, but was distracted by the sound of fast moving hoofbeats. 

Geralt and Yennefer broke through the trees looking battle weary and anxious. The bond between Geralt and Jaskier flared bright with relief as the sentinel scanned his guide for any sign of injury. 

“Where’s Fringilla?” Yennefer asked.

“Ahead, somewhere.” Jaskier’s brow furrowed at the reminder of the other guide leaving them all behind. “She took off before me.”

“We’ll need to keep moving. The fog won’t keep them in place long.” Geralt looked back toward the path behind them like he would be able to sense their pursuers. “The rain will help cover our tracks.”

“Triss is waking up.” Yennefer’s head snapped up in surprise at Jaskier’s abrupt announcement. Immediately, a painful kind of hope flashed bright and fierce over her face and she looked over the unconscious guide eagerly.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“Not much. She’s still pretty weak.”

Disappointment had Yennefer’s shoulders slumping slightly, but she rallied soon enough. “I can check her once we find somewhere safe to stop.”

Geralt nodded and nudged Roach toward the trail at a ground eating trot. Jaskier followed after him a moment later with Yennefer bringing up the rear of their group.

They continued through the trees for two more hours before they found any sign of Fringilla. By that time, the rain had moved from a drizzle to icy sheets that had them all huddling beneath their cloaks atop their miserable horses. The ground was slick with mud that made the horses stumble with a mixture of exhaustion and poor visibility. The only good news was that there was no way the hunters would be able to follow them in this weather.

Just as Jaskier was about to beg them to find a place to stop for the night, Geralt’s head came up and he scanned the trees around them warily. “I smell smoke.”

Yennefer came to a stop beside Jaskier and Triss and the two guides scanned the woods for any sign of the source. A moment later, the mage nodded toward the rocky hillside ahead of them. “It’s Fringilla,” she said.

Jaskier scowled, but didn’t protest when they directed their horses toward the scent of a campfire. The smoke from the burning wood was obscured by the dark sky above them and without the enhanced senses of the sentinel, he might not have noticed it until he was right next to it. Once they were closer, Geralt slid off Roach to lead her toward a small cave set into the side of the hill where they could just make out the light of the fire inside.

He let out a breath of relief when they stepped beneath the shelter of the cave’s entrance and out of the cold rain. The shelter was wide enough that they were able to tether the wet horses next to Fringilla’s placid mount before moving deeper into the space. 

Geralt carefully lifted Triss from Buttercup’s saddle while Jaskier quickly pulled off their wet tack. Yennefer immediately moved to his side and placed her hand on Triss’ forehead to check for fever. 

“We need to get her dried off,” she said, worry evident.

Jaskier lifted the hem of his wet tunic and wrung it out with a disgusted expression. “We all need to get dry,” he groused.

“Come on then.” 

Geralt hovered near his guide’s side, obviously needing the reassurance that none of them had been taken in the ambush. The bard dared to stand on his tiptoes to brush a kiss over his damp cheek and was rewarded with a soft smile. 

They followed Yenn deeper into the cave until it expanded into a natural cavern. Part of the ceiling was open to the night sky above them and helped keep the smoke from the fire from filling the air. Fringilla was seated on a smooth stone beneath the rock shelf, watching them without expression.

“Nice of you to wait for us,” Jaskier bit out sourly.

The other guide met his irritated expression with a raised eyebrow. “I found us shelter.”

“Why didn’t you do anything against the hunters?” he demanded, eyes blazing. “You just  _ left-- _ ”

“Leave her be,” Yennefer said tiredly. She raked a hand through her hair, dislodging several leaves and twigs from the dark tresses. “It takes time to learn how to break Aretuza’s rules. They would have taken great pleasure in torturing her if they’d gotten their hands on her. Besides, none of us were killed or captured.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Fringilla remained silent, unbothered by the irritated look Jaskier sent her. 

The sentinel sent him a reproachful look as he settled Triss onto the pallet Yennefer was busy laying out close to the warmth of the fire. They worked to strip the worst of the wet clothing off the unconscious woman before covering her with the driest bedroll. Jaskier added his own clothes to the growing collection hanging over a nearby rock to dry, shivering at the cold air against his wet skin.

Geralt handed him a spare shirt from his pack and the guide took it with a grateful smile. The cotton was still slightly damp from the soaked pack, but it was leagues better than the saturated clothes he’d abandoned. He moved closer to the fire, uncaring if he singed himself in his search for warmth.

Fringilla stood and walked over to wear Yennefer was examining Triss for any signs of waking up again. “She needs to eat something,” she said and held out the flask she usually carried. “Here. It’s the last of the broth.”

Yennefer took the offered flask with a nod of thanks and carefully began to trickle it into Triss’ mouth in small amounts. The other guide watched her with a satisfied expression on her face.

She didn’t seem to notice the way Jaskier continued to watch her.

His sentinel nudged him gently, distracting him from his thoughts to gesture toward the bedroll he’d laid out nearby. “You need to warm up.”

The words along with the constant thrum of worry through their bond soothed some of the irritation left by Fringulla’s odd behavior. He sank down beside the fire and was rewarded with Geralt settling beside him, huddled close to share the warmth of his larger body. The Witcher looked exhausted and his brow remained furrowed grimly. 

Jaskier was helpless against the pull to soothe away the worst of his pain and the sentinel relaxed heavily beside him when the sting of his injuries faded. For a long time, the remained silent, absorbing the comfort of each other’s presence. 

“Do you think they’ll find us again?” he asked quietly.

Geralt stared into the fire, considering. “We just need to make it to the mountains,” he finally said, “They won’t be able to navigate the paths there. Not without someone to lead them.”

What if someone  _ was _ leading them? Jaskier doesn’t say. He just kept his eyes fixed on the grey-clad guide across from them.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder if Jaskier's hunch is right...


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy an extra long chapter.

The storm continued for another two days.

At first, they’d considered moving along the trails and suffering through the chill and the damp. Geralt was eager to reach the relative safety of Kaer Morhen and confirm for himself that his brothers were still safe. Jaskier knew he was imagining what might happen if the hunters managed to find Eskel or Lambert while they were still searching for their missing third. Unfortunately, the only way to confirm they were alright was if they reached the keep and it was obvious that that wasn’t going to happen immediately.

With the rain came a bitter chill that tested the capabilities of their thin cloaks and clothing. Jaskier was already relying on wearing several layers of clothing to keep from shivering through the night. The horses were tired and he knew they needed the rest if they were going to make it up the mountain peaks for the last leg of their journey. 

Geralt passed the time by patching up his gear as best he could and replacing the potions he’d used in his last hunt. Jaskier didn’t need to be told that he was preparing in case they were forced to fight another group of hunters again.

For his part, he’d spent a few hours happily strumming his lute and coming up with increasingly ridiculous rhyme schemes until he could no longer ignore the miserable figure of Yennefer and her guide. Silently, he returned the lute to its case and padded over to stand next to Yennefer. The guide’s skin was pale with the same strain that marked her too-still counterpart, but he knew it came from worry rather than illness.

“Teach me.”

Yennefer turned toward him with a frown. “One traditionally makes a request with a little more explanation, bardling.”

He smiled a little at her sarcasm and settled onto the nearest flat stone next to her. “You said I need more training in case I need to defend myself against someone,” he expanded, “Since I have no intention of training at Aretuza, I figure you would be the next best thing.”

“And why would I bother training you?”

“Because there’s nothing better for you to do.”

She arched an eyebrow at him but remained unmoved.

“And because you know we’re more likely to survive if I can protect myself and others from hunters,” he continued. “You--”

Before he could finish the thought, a bolt of raw agony shot through his mind like liquid fire. 

He gasped, back arching in an uncomfortable bow as he tried to remember how to breathe when his lungs seemed incapable of doing more than emptying with a wheeze. Panicking, he reached for his shields, trying to protect himself from more of that nauseating pain. It felt like his mind was falling apart to the tune of his pounding heart.

That quickly, that awful sensation disappeared.

Yennefer watched him with a small amount of sympathy as he sucked in deep lungfuls of air. “Sloppy,” she commented. “You’re too used to assuming that all of your enemies will give you fair warning.”

Jaskier grunted, scowling at her as he wiped away the sweat from his brow. A few yards away, Geralt watched him warily, looking like he was trying to decide if he should intervene. The mage looked equally curious about how he would respond to her brutal method of training. 

When his head wasn’t throbbing in protest, he straightened his spine and met her strangely colored eyes. “Again.”

This time, he was braced against the jagged shards of glass carving their way into his skull. Instead of resisting the sensation or trying to hide behind his shields, he let it wash over him, clenching his jaw to keep the sounds of agony at bay. He grappled against it, trying to control the overwhelming sensation, and found himself reflexively turning toward the only source of comfort left to him.

His bond with his sentinel.

He reached for the steady strength that he associated with the broad shouldered Witcher only a few feet away. He thought of sunny days walking side by side beneath green leaves and blue skies. Of warm arms anchoring him each night against the chill of lonely nights. Of the press of soft lips against his, teasing out pleasure as easily as a song.

That easily, he found himself able to breathe through the new anchor and shove Yennefer’s attack away safely beneath his shields.

“Not bad, bardling,” she said with a nod, “but you can’t always rely on Geralt being close enough to anchor you.”

Fringilla frowned at Jaskier and Geralt. “You’re bonded?”

“It’s a trauma bond,” Jaskier told her.

“For now.”

Jaskier’s smile widened at Geralt’s quiet addition and inclined his head toward the sentinel. “For now--it’s not exactly ideal to cement a bond while running for our lives.”

“Bold of you to assume that will ever change,” Yennefer quipped.

He shrugged and returned his focus to the other guide. “Tell me how to shield without an anchor.”

  
  
  
  


When even his failures to grapple with shields and projecting emotions weren’t enough to distract from the continued lack of movement from Triss, Jaskier leaned his shoulder against Yennefer in silent support and watched the firelight against the stone walls.

“Tell me about her.”

* * *

The morning of the third day found Jaskier and Geralt standing in front of the cave’s entrance beneath the shelter of the rock shelf.

“We risk one of them going lame on the unstable ground,” Jaskier said grimly as they looked out on the steady rainfall.

“It might give them time to get reinforcements and more horses.”

He glanced over at the sentinel silhouetted against the entrance of the cave. “They haven’t followed us. They probably lost the trail once the rain started.”

“How can you be sure?” Geralt asked, jaw tight with tension.

The guide didn’t describe how often he lay awake, looking up at the craggy ceiling above him, straining to sense any sign of their pursuers. “I can’t sense anyone but us for at least five miles.”

“You can scan that far?”

They both turned to see Fringilla coming up behind them, brow furrowed. “I thought you weren’t trained,” she continued.

“I’m not,” he said easily and shrugged, trying not to show his distrust of the woman. “I’ve had to figure things out as I go.” 

“Your shields are still weak,” the other guide’s voice is blunt. He felt her eyes raking over him like she was trying to peel apart layers of skin and muscle until she could view the soul beneath. “Yennefer told me you’ve been traveling as a bard. How have you managed to withstand the effects of a crowd?”

Jaskier tried not to react to the disbelief in her tone. “I practiced.”

“At your level of experience, you should have been overwhelmed with a large group.”

“It is overwhelming sometimes,” he admitted, “but I can usually project enough to make the crowd shift to something easier.”

“You...project.” 

Now she sounded openly skeptical, but whatever she might have said was cut off when Geralt nudged Jaskier. “I watched him do it in a few taverns to get more tips.”

Jaskier grinned at him. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

The sentinel hummed, but his guide knew better than to assume it was in frustration. He could feel the agitation from earlier shifting with the distraction of Fringilla’s questions.

Fringilla considered the two of them for a moment longer before changing the subject. “We need more supplies.”

“The closest town is a half day’s ride away--longer if the roads are bad,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier glanced out at the rainy trees outside the cave mouth. “Isn’t it a risk with the hunters so close?”

“Triss will need better clothing if she’s going to survive the trip up the mountain.” Fringilla glanced back to where Yennefer and Triss were just out of sight. “We won’t be able to hunt to replace what we’ve used because of the delay.”

The reminder that Triss’ situation hadn’t gotten better hung like a weight over each of them. If he concentrated, he could feel the bleak worry that radiated from Yennefer with each passing hour. The other guide remained fixed to her bondmate’s side, one hand curled around hers. The rest of them gave them as much privacy as possible, allowing Yennefer the ability to focus fully on Triss for the first time since they’d been reunited, but they all knew something needed to change if she was going to be able to reach Kaer Morhen.

“I’ll go,” the sentinel said. “I can reach the town faster than a group. I’ll make it back before the end of the day.”

Yennefer’s voice cut through Jaskier’s protest. “I’m going too. I want to see if I can find some materials for a potion for Triss.”

“Yenn--”

“It’s not safe for either of you!” the bard said, waving his arms through the air. “There are  _ hunters _ looking for all of us!”

The mage ignored his antics. “They’re looking for four people in a group. Geralt and I can be in and out of the town before anyone even notices.”

“If anyone is going with Geralt, it should be me.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “I’ve got more battle experience than you, bardling. Besides, I can make sure no guide attacks Geralt while he’s away from you.”

Jaskier hesitated, eyes flicking over her. The idea of letting the Witcher go into town--and potentially against hunters--made everything in him want to rebell. He couldn’t protect his sentinel if he was back in the cave with the creepy mage and Triss. Oddly, Yennefer was perhaps the only one who he would consider an acceptable substitute for protecting Geralt’s back. At the very least, she wouldn’t allow anything to happen to him so long as the sentinel’s presence was helping ensure that Triss was safe.

She seemed to sense that he was wavering because she looked over at Geralt. “I can continue scanning for any hunters attempting to track us. Between you and Fringilla, you can keep them away from Triss if they try to double back.”

“I don’t like it,” Jaskier muttered. “We should be staying together.”

Geralt moved closer, blocking out the other guides with his broad shoulders. He gave the bard a soft smile that ricocheted through the bond like sunlight. “I’ll be careful.”

There was too much lingering in the air between them to be spoken aloud in front of the others. It felt like they were at the edge of some massive cliff and he couldn’t seem to shake the sensation that they were about to fall off. He wished there was a way to return to the weeks they’d spent traveling from town to town. That there was a way for them to be safe and stop fearing the day when they weren’t able to outrun the hunters on their tail.

He set his jaw, clenching until it ached, but he knew there was nothing else they could do. It wasn’t so simple as hiding away in this cave until they could pretend they were safe. “You have to,” he whispered, softly enough that it couldn’t be overheard. “I just found you.”

The thought of losing Geralt now made Jaskier’s heart throb in protest. Already, he couldn’t imagine life without that inexorable tug in his chest that served as a permanent reminder that he wasn’t alone. 

The sentinel’s arms tugged him forward until he was pressed against a strong chest, lungs filling with the earthy scent of his bondmate. His fingers sank into the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt, anchoring him to the shelter of his grip. Jaskier felt his chest expand on a breath like he was trying to memorize the scent of the guide and couldn’t resist the urge to do the same.

When they broke away, Yennefer’s expression had turned sad and he didn’t need to see her eyes drift over to Triss to know she was thinking of her own bondmate. 

“We’ll be back by this evening--tomorrow morning at the latest,” she said.

He nodded, words sitting thick and unspoken in his throat. 

Geralt reached out to stroke a thumb over his cheek in a brief physical display of the emotion that shimmered through their bond. “Don’t get into any trouble, guide.”

Jaskier forced himself to smirk. “No promises.”

He watched the two of them saddle and carefully lead Roach and the other mare toward the muddy trail away from the cave. Fringilla turned back to return to Triss’ side, unbothered by the threat to the others. He kept his eyes fixed on Geralt until he could no longer make him out through the trees and even then, he continued to cling to the link between them until even that disappeared. 

He told himself there was no reason for the dread building in his stomach. 

* * *

Being trapped in a small cave with only Fringilla for company was not ideal. It was obvious that she was less than excited at the prospect of being trapped with him so he didn’t bother to pretend the feeling wasn’t mutual.

He decided it would be best to stay busy and avoid getting stuck in awkward conversations that seemed to shift back and forth between invasive questions and seemingly genuine distaste for everything in his lifestyle. If not for Triss, he might have followed after Yennefer and Geralt--fighting skills or not. To reward his patience, he spent the better part of an hour braiding Buttercup’s mane and tail and ensuring that both horses were well groomed.

As he worked, he considered the fact that if Fringilla was up to something, Triss was the most vulnerable of their group. She was already ill enough that she was at the mercy of the emotions and whims of the people around them. It probably was part of why she’d been slow to wake.

Jaskier had a sneaking suspicion that he knew the real reason why she was still unconscious--even if the knowledge wasn’t a comfort. 

He’d been watching Fringilla nearly constantly since their run-in with the hunters and it had only cemented his belief that she had a hand in Triss’ mysterious illness. She was the only one more dedicated to Triss’ health and care than Yennefer and had guarded the right to care for the fallen guide almost jealously. Maybe that was why he knew that Yennefer would be slow to doubt her. With Yennefer and Geralt exhausted and worried in equal parts about their ability to reach Kaer Morhen, he couldn’t speak up until he had concrete evidence.

So he watched and waited for something that would confirm his hunch. He watched the way she was quick to appear at Yennefer’s side with more broth or to drink from the flask she always seemed to be carrying. It took the better part of a day to realize that she seemed to want to give Triss more of whatever it was inside of her flask nearly every two hours. The next day he watched her continue the pattern like clockwork.

Which begged the question: just what was she giving Triss?

The obvious, simple explanation of the behavior was that Fringilla was trying to keep up with the needs of an unconscious patient set up by someone who didn’t want to risk forgetting to feed or care for them. He kept a figurative eye on her impressive shields for any sign of concern or worry when she worked around Triss, but felt nothing more than the seemingly endless pool of focus that appeared every other waking moment of her day. It didn’t make sense.

Jaskier watched Fringilla as she sat next to Triss, half an eye on the pot of more of that strange broth that she continued to give to the other woman. Occasionally, she reached over to toss a few more herbs and carefully dried plant clippings that she must have gotten before she joined them on the road. None of these herbs had found their way into the group’s meals as far as he could tell.

Casually, he walked over to where she sat and took a theatrically deep breath of the fragrant smoke above the small pot. “Smells good,” he said, “Do you mind if I try some?”

Fringilla frowned at him, looking stern. “It’s for Triss.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I tried just a bit.”

He reached out to grab the spoon she’d been using to stir, but her hand reached out to snag his wrist before he could raise it to his lips. “I  _ said _ it’s for Triss,” she growled.

Jaskier was not a graceful man.

Maybe that was why he--accidentally, of course--stumbled back, bumping into the pot of broth in the process. It slipped off the side of the flat rock that it had been sitting on, hitting the ground and rolling. Hot liquid splashed against his bare feet, making him hiss and move out of the way. 

Fringilla cursed, getting to her feet. For the first time, he could feel her anger beating against his shields like the sensation of a sunburn.

“Bumbling fool!” she hissed, “You’ve spilled it all!”

“I’m so sorry.” It was easy to play the role of the awkward bard after so many years. He knew how easy it was for people to assume that he was as idiotic as his stage persona. “It was an accident. You know what they say about big feet.”

Her gimlet stare told him that she wasn’t amused at his attempt at humor.

“I can make some more to replace--”

“No need,” she said stiffly, “I’ll need to go get more herbs if I’m going to make more. That was the last of my supplies.”

_ I know,  _ he didn’t say. It wouldn’t do for her to realize how long he’d been watching her to know that much.

“I’m so sorry,” Jaskier repeated. He made sure he leaked guilt and embarrassment into the air around him, capitalizing on the way she assumed he wouldn’t know how to keep his emotions hidden like her own. “Maybe I could help?”

Fringilla waved his feeble attempt at offering to help to pace over to where her cloak was draped over her pack. She brushed her hands roughly over the fabric in an obvious attempt to alleviate some of her frustration.

“It will take some time to find the plants she needs.”

“It’s still raining,” he said, “maybe you could wait until the storm clears.”

The other guide scowled at him. “She needs this or she’ll become worse.”

He ruthlessly shoved aside the guilt he felt at the thought of potentially hurting Triss with the reminder that this would prove whether they should trust Fringilla before she reached Kaer Morhen and the rest of Geralt’s family. Dangerous or not, he refused to let anything happen to Geralt or the other guides and sentinels.

“I’ll watch her while you’re gone,” he promised sweetly.

The other guide shot him another disgruntled look, but headed for the exit. He tried not to feel too satisfied to watch her leave.

“I hope you don’t mind the dishonesty,” Jaskier told Triss’ silent form. “I don’t trust her.”

Triss’ silence felt a little judgemental.

“Listen, you and I both know she’s up to something. Yennefer and Geralt are just too focused to realize she’s a threat too.” He walked over to Fringilla’s gear and eyed the neatly packed back. She’d taken her smaller pouch to gather herbs and he doubted she’d be foolish enough to leave something here that would implicate her. “You could always wake up and tell us what really happened with you two,” he continued.

Carefully, he shifted the gear and clothing inside Fringilla’s pack for anything that seemed strange. Not for the first time, he wished he had the same magic as Yennefer and the other mages of Aretuza. Then he could scan for anything that might have been hidden from plain sight.

Disgruntled at the lack of shocking evidence, Jaskier returned everything to its previous place and walked over to where Triss was still sleeping. Her brow was furrowed as though she was dreaming and he felt his heart ache at the reminder of all that she’d already experienced.

“I really want you to be okay…” he confessed. “It’s not fair that you were reunited with Yennefer only to be trapped in some kind of coma. You deserve a happy ending.”

Triss released a soft sound like a murmur and he looked over at her with wide eyes.

The guide’s features were furrowed and sweat dampened her hairline as she shifted restlessly. Heart pounding, Jaskier moved closer. He gently brushed his fingers over her soft hair and leaned closer.

“Triss?” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”

Her head shifted slightly as though she was trying to listen and he took it as permission to continue his rambling.

“Yennefer and Geralt are gone for the rest of the day. It’s the only time I could try to get her away from you.”

He glanced over at the cave’s mouth and frowned, considering how long it would be before Fringilla returned. In his haste to prove whether Fringilla was up to something sinister, he hadn’t considered what he would do if his suspicions were right. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to fight her should it come to that. She had years of training at the hands of Aretuza's best guides to ensure her dominance in combat.

A soft brush across the hand closest to Triss made him jump in surprise.

Clever hazel eyes stared up at him blearily. Her breath sounded ragged to his ears, but his heart still leapt in his chest at the sight of some sort of awareness.

“Triss?”

“...gilla,” she rasped, voice sounding like it had to be forced over broken glass.

“She’s gone,” he reassured her. “You’re safe.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but her voice broke on the first syllable. Quickly, he grabbed his own waterskin and held it to her lips so she could drink greedily. “Yenn?” she asked.

“Gone with Geralt. They’ll be back tonight or tomorrow morning. We needed supplies.”

“Not...safe…”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh. “Oh, I think you and I will get along famously. I told them the same thing.”

“No,” she said with a frown. “Here.”

“It’s alright,” he repeated. Already, his mind was spinning at the implications of what this meant. If Triss had been poisoned in some way by Fringilla, that meant she knew something that the other guide didn’t want to risk the others learning. 

He frowned thoughtfully. “Why would she want to keep you unconscious if she saved you?” he asked her.

Triss’ expression darkened into a scowl. “She didn’t save me. She just used me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We need to get out of here,” the guide said, shifting like she was trying to get up without success. “She’ll come back.”

He could feel the pain and fear trembling through her shields in equal measure with the determination he recognized from Yennefer. It was obvious that whatever story Fringilla had told, Triss had not gone willingly. Already, it looked like the effects of whatever had been in the flask was wearing off with each passing moment which explained why the other guide had been so quick to go out to gather more herbs and plants to brew another batch. She must have been keeping Triss sedated or too ill in order to keep her silent and compliant.

The only reason Fringilla could have for using Triss to earn Yennefer’s good will was so she could follow the guide runner back to Kaer Morhen. There was only one piece of information that Yennefer and Geralt were prepared to die for.

The realization sent a bolt of icy terror through him. 

“We need to warn Geralt and Yennefer.” He hurriedly reached for the cloak that had been wrapped around Triss and tried to think of what they should do. “We can take the horses--she left her mare with Buttercup--and we’ll find Geralt. They need to know that she’s trying to get to the keep.”

Triss was weak, but he was sure they could balance her sickness with the aid of two horses. There was no way Fringilla could follow without her own mount. If Triss couldn’t stay on her own mount, he could just hold her and bring the extra horse with them to keep Fringilla from catching up. Then, it was just a matter of following his own bond back to Geralt.

He helped Triss lean forward and supported her weight. “Drink some more water while I get the horses. You’ll need your strength--”

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” a familiar voice sighed behind him.

Something smashed against his head and he knew no more.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cliffhanger after a long chapter? It's more likely than you think!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block has not been kind to me lately so please forgive me for the slow update. I hope you enjoy.

The world ended with suddenness that left Geralt breathless.

One moment, he was focused on the sluggish little town and tracking Yennefer by the familiar scent of lavender and gooseberries. It was almost comforting to fall into the pattern he remembered from his time helping her ferry the small groups of sentinels or guides to safety. He let his senses expand to include each villager in the marketplace even as his mind continued to pick at the faint traces of the bond leading back in the woods. They needed to--

The next moment his knees were hitting the hard packed earth and his mind was ripping itself apart by the seams.

He must make a sound, some small symbol of the agony inside his chest, because Yennefer appeared a moment later in a rustle of silks. 

“What happened?” she asked, voice low as she scanned for some kind of explanation for what could cause such a reaction.

Through the nausea, Geralt forced out one word through gritted teeth.

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

Immediately, the other guide went stiff with an answering tension. He knew her mind was returning to Triss, trapped within her own body and utterly helpless against any attack. 

“Hunters?”

He forced himself to focus on something beyond the yawning chasm in the center of his chest. It felt like the light that had once spread through the bond he’d made with Jaskier had burned away the flesh and tissue to leave only brittle shards in his ribcage. Each breath left shards of glass raking against every soft place the guide had created within him.

With a growing panic, he scrabbled at the fragments of the bond for some sign of life at the other end. A rope cut before it could pull him to safety.

Heartsick and in pain, Geralt shook his head, feeling himself hurtling toward a zone for the first time since Posada. “No. There’s nothing.”

Violet eyes flicked over his face a moment before she reached out and pressed a palm to his cheek. Immediately, he could feel the effects of her own abilities serving as an anchor against the wild storm raging inside of him. He took a deep breath and forced himself to sort through the overwhelming information he was flooded with.

Lavender. Gooseberries. Dust and grasses. Further off, there was the warmer scents of horses and people.

He could make out the faint sound of Yennefer’s heartbeat pulsing in steady rhythm and the murmuring of various voices--curious and inquisitive--a few feet away. A cat yowled a complaint at a child tugging on its tail and a dog barking as it chased a small flock of sheep. Birds continued to call overhead, unbothered by the sentinel scrabbling for control below them.

He took a breath. Then another.

It took several more attempts before he was able to release his grip on Yennefer’s arm without feeling like he would fly apart. She remained silently watching throughout, gaze shadowed with the same worry in his. 

“Can you make it to the horses?”

Geralt was reminded suddenly that the violet eyed mage knew exactly what it was like to feel a bond be broken.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to look for Roach and the other mare at the paddock nearby. “Did you get the supplies?”

“Enough to make it to the keep.” Barring any more problems, she doesn’t say. There’s no point in describing something they both know.

Geralt was grateful that Roach was used to dealing with a wounded and floundering Witcher. She remained steady and patient as he fumbled his way into the saddle and gathered the reins. He told himself that when they reached the keep he was going to spend a week spoiling her rotten.

Yennefer took the lead out of town, barely managing to do more than hastily tie down the winter gear and food they’d bought before they were off. 

It was too dangerous for them to go directly back to the cave, but neither of them wanted to risk being too late. They knew first hand what could happen in the few hours that it would take them to get back. If it was hunters that had ripped apart Jaskier and Geralt’s bond, they might have hurt the guide badly enough to make Geralt unable to tell where he was or what had happened. They could have--

He cut off the thought before it could fester in his mind. Surely the fates weren’t so cruel as to bring Geralt a perfect guide just to rip him away a few weeks later. A glance toward Yennefer reminded him that sometimes destiny and fate were far crueler than a human mind could comprehend.

Roach and the other mare raced over the roughly hewn path, sides heaving with the effort to maintain the speed their urgent riders demanded. His mind continued to reach for the missing bond, hoping that it would return as quickly as it had disappeared. Without it to lead him back to wherever Jaskier was now, they were forced to take a curving path back to the cave and hope that they would be able to find their guides there. Even moving as quickly as they were now, it would still take hours to get back.

Hours Jaskier might not have.

The sight of the cave’s entrance a few hours later felt like a revelation. Geralt barely let the horses come to a stop before he was sliding out of Roach’s saddle and running toward the craggy opening cut into the rocks. He tried to use his senses to scan for any sort of sign of what had caused his bond with Jaskier to disappear, but couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his pounding heart.

“Jaskier?” he called, desperate.

Nothing but silence answered him. It was as though even the trees around them were holding their breaths. 

Yennefer matched his stride though she remained wary, tension evident in the tightness in her shoulders. “There could still be hunters around.”

_ It could be a trap, _ her eyes warned.

Geralt forced himself to pause, to listen for any sign of what could have destroyed the relative safety of their hideout. It was so far away from the roads and the hunting trails that it was difficult to imagine how any hunter might have found it. Without Jaskier to anchor him, he risked becoming overstimulated once more, but he trusted Yennefer to pull him out. If nothing else, they knew they stood a better chance of finding their missing halves if they worked together.

He could smell the faintest hint of woodsmoke and the sharp tang of the medicinal plants that Fringilla had been using with Triss. Yarrow. Willow bark. Feverfew. All of them familiar, even to a Witcher, for healing--though they hadn’t seemed to work so far.

Then there was the steady drip of the rain overhead into the opening of the main chamber. He listened for muffled voices or the soft noises that would indicate someone injured or restrained. He was too truly panicked about his missing bond to interpret whether that information was good or bad.

A glance at Yennefer confirmed that the guide hadn’t had any luck either. 

They moved into the shadow of the rocks in near silence. Geralt held his steel sword in one steady hand and scanned the darkness of the now-familiar path that he’d had the better part of a week to learn. The only thing that was new was the lack of bright blue eyes and a quick smile to welcome him back. 

The first sign that something was wrong was in what was missing. Buttercup’s familiar grey form wasn’t waiting in the shelter of the cave--nor was the mare Fringilla had been using to travel with Triss. The saddle and tack that belonged to each horse was gone with them.

“Maybe they sensed something and left,” Yennefer offered without sounding convinced.

“Jaskier would have left some sign for us to follow.” And it didn’t explain why their bond had vanished.

The other guide nodded and moved deeper into the cave, footsteps silent enough to pass for a Witcher. He followed after her, tightening his hold on his weapon.

Ahead of them, the passage opened up into the larger cavern where they’d been sheltering for days. Their pace sped up despite trying to remain prepared for an attack as both of them looked for any sign of Jaskier, Triss, and Fringilla.

Dying embers from the fire were still smoking in the chilly air and he spotted the pot Fringilla and Yennefer used for meals laying overturned a few feet away. Jaskier’s lute was still next to his pack, but Fringilla’s gear was nowhere in sight. Triss, too, was missing from the pallet still laying near the fire. Heart in his throat, Geralt tried not to focus on what each sign signified.

A struggle.

“They’re gone.” 

Yennefer moved toward the pallet where she’d left her former bondmate with uncharacteristic unsteadiness. Her fingers hovered in the air over the blankets. “It doesn’t make sense,” she muttered, not bothering to raise her voice when she knew he would hear her. “Why would hunters take Fringilla’s belongings but leave the rest?”

“Fringilla might have left.” 

Geralt thought about how irritated and suspicious Jaskier had been about the guide after their run-in with the hunters. The bard had been convinced that Fringilla had proven that she was only interested in her own interests--no matter how far she’d been willing to carry Triss. Something twisted low in his gut at the thought of how quickly he’d dismissed Jaskier’s suspicions because he hadn’t wanted to consider that she was using Triss as a bargaining trick.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Yennefer said again, frowning. “Why would she--”

“Yenn?”

The voice was soft and rough with disuse, but he saw Yennefer’s spine straighten in shock. She whirled towards the figure crouched behind a terraced line of stalactites, her face pale with a strange mixture of terror and hope.

It wasn’t hard to guess what could cause such a reaction.

Triss.

The mage rushed forward with something close to a sob and was met by the stumbling gate of the injured guide. They crashed together, clinging with white knuckled grips and bruising force. Wordless noises of comfort and relief rose in an uneven chorus that made his heart ache in his chest.

Geralt turned away to try to give them their privacy and tried not to think about the body that should have remained by his side. He looked around the cavern once more and felt like he could feel the ghost of the bard waiting just out of sight.

“Wait,” Yennefer managed without letting go of her frantic hold on Triss. “How is this possible?”

“Fringilla.”

Geralt’s attention snapped back towards the two mages. “What about her?”

“She’s been drugging me. She didn’t want to risk that I would wake up and tell you the truth.”

Yennefer’s hands stroked over Triss’ back in a soothing gesture that felt strange against the years of experience he’d had with the battle-hardened sorceress. Violet eyes met Geralt’s over Triss’ curly hair. “She wanted us to trust her.”

The sentinel cursed viciously, pacing away with barely contained force. Fringilla had been playing with their emotions from the start, using Yennefer’s distraction with Triss and Geralt’s own focus on hunters to keep them from noticing the danger in their midst.

Abruptly, the hunters’ ability to track them made a terrible sort of sense. She’d been feeding them information all along.

“What about Jaskier?” he asked sharply.

Triss’ expressive mouth pursed. “He figured it out somehow--made sure she missed the dose and gave me a chance to burn through whatever she was giving me. Whatever it was, she had to balance keeping me weak enough to stay unconscious, but not make me sick enough to warrant seeing a healer that might recognize what it really was. She must have gone to get more supplies and he stayed with me.”

“She took him,” Geralt finished before she could explain further. His voice was flat against the maelstrom of emotions in his chest.

“He was trying to get our gear so we could find you,” she said, “but Fringilla managed to surprise him and knocked him out.”

“How did you manage to escape?” Yennefer asked. 

“I managed enough of a shield that she decided it was too much trouble to haul the two of us around.” Triss’ looked miserably at Geralt. “I’m sorry, Witcher. I wasn’t strong enough to keep her away from him too.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Geralt couldn’t manage to make the comforting phrase breach the tightness of his throat.

All he could think about is the way Jaskier had been so afraid of falling into the hands of hunters or the trainers at Aretuza. The bard had spent the majority of his life staying far away from their threats. All that had changed the moment when he’d risked his life to save an zoning sentinel in the middle of a crowded bar and he’d been in nonstop danger ever since.

It wasn’t fair, he wanted to yell at the fickle gods of destiny. Jaskier deserved to reach Kaer Morhen more than any of them. He deserved to know what it was like to be safe and doted on. In his haste to reach the familiar walls of his childhood home, Geralt had unknowingly allowed his guide to be captured and hurt once more.

He should have stayed there and cherished the sound of the rain over the rocks. He should have lingered in the warm embrace and scent of lavender and cedar and meadowgrass and clean sweat that marked Jaskier sleeping beside him. Now, with the knowledge of his loss burning like a poison in his blood, Geralt wanted to  _ scream _ at himself for turning his back on Jaskier’s lonely figure. To turn around and memorize the sound of his voice and the curve of his cheek. 

I should never have left.

“Where would she take him?” he managed roughly.

“Geralt,” Yennefer began, but he shook his head.

“Where?”

Triss eyed him carefully, obviously picking up the lingering grief that he knew was projecting off of him in waves. It was equally obvious that he was not anchored and easy to guess why a sentinel would react so strongly to a missing guide. “She wanted to find Kaer Morhen.”

“Without someone to lead her there, she would never make it through the paths,” Yennefer said. “She would freeze to death first.”

_ Jaskier doesn’t have winter gear, _ his mind whispered nonsensically. The new fur-lined cloak he’d bought was still laying at the bottom of their newly acquired supplies.

“She knew we were heading toward the mountains. How many men are traveling with her?”

Triss shook her head. “I’m not sure. She was reporting back to someone though. Someone important.” 

“Aretuza?” Yennefer asked. “Or another kingdom?”

“Not Aretuza. They haven’t been able to produce as many guides lately. There’s talk of another training facility becoming a competitor in the south.”

“No real loss there.” Yennefer’s eyes continued to trace over Triss’ features hungrily, clearly eager to soak in the pleasure of seeing her awake and talking. She glanced over at Geralt and frowned a little. “We’ll need to warn Vesemir and the others. She may try to intercept another group heading up the mountain. Kaer Morhen cannot be found.”

“We can’t just  _ abandon _ him,” he bit out. “You know what they’ll do.”

Break him. Use him. Rip apart every piece of his soul until he’s nothing more than a tool for them to use.

Yennefer’s eyes remained steady and he knew without her reminder that the keep was meant to be paramount to any one guide or sentinel’s safety.

“Would she try to go back?” Geralt asked Triss, desperate to avoid the choice he was going to be forced to make. “She doesn't have the gear or knowledge to reach Kaer Morhen without us.”

Triss shook her head, looking torn. “I’m not sure. She might think she could use Jaskier in some way or as a replacement for me. I...I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until his bones  _ ached _ .

“He--” His voice broke on the next word and he had to swallow twice before he could produce another sound. “You said she knocked him out.”

“You’re bonded with him?” Triss asked instead of answering the implied question. Her eyes were painfully soft as she watched the sentinel breaking down in front of her. “Can you still sense him?”

Geralt’s silence was answer enough.

“Geralt…” Yennefer slowly got to her feet, hand stretched out to him in silent entreaty to accept the reality they were too kind to say. “He wouldn’t want you to get captured trying to save him.”

“You don’t know what he would want.”

“I know he wanted you safe and was willing to fight to keep you out of any hunter’s hands. You told me that.”

“How am I supposed to just walk away knowing he’s with them?” The words were the last step toward the hangman’s noose. The final breach of the water’s surface before drowning in the deep. “I’m supposed to keep him safe.”

“You won’t be able to save him if you’re dead or captured. They would only use you against him.” The guide’s expression turned focused, determined. “We can get help at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir might be able to track him down for you.”

“And if he can’t? If Jaskier is taken to one of the camps?”

The mage’s smile was as cruel as a knife’s edge. “Then we burn the world down to get him back.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least they know Fringilla is the villain. Too late for poor Jaskier though.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you'd like me to continue!


End file.
